“You'd better start clearing out your closets. You don't want him getting comfortable at home again. Or do you?” Adrian asked pointedly, and she shook her head, looking grief-stricken. She was terrified that she had already lost him, but it couldn't have happened that fast. It didn't make sense to her.

“No, I don't,” she answered. “I want him to come back.”

“Then just relax, and give him space. He'll be okay. He loves you, Fiona. That doesn't change overnight.”

“He fell in love with me overnight, maybe he'll fall out of love with me just as fast.”

“You have to adjust and compromise. You both need time to grow into this. Besides, you two have been living in never-never land all summer. Now his kids are back. You're in real time. You have to adapt to that, at least until the kids leave again. See how it goes.”

“I'm having dinner with them tonight,” Fiona said, sounding terrified. He had never seen her look like that in all the years they had been friends. Fiona was never afraid of anything, and surely not two young girls. She had never even been afraid of men. But that was also because she never cared if she lost them.

Until now, she had always been just as happy to be alone. Until John. Now she cared. And she had more to lose.

“What time are you meeting them?”

“Seven-thirty. At his place. His housekeeper is cooking dinner. I've never been to his apartment. He hasn't gone back all summer, except to pick up clothes, and I never bothered to go with him. But he didn't invite me to either. Now I wish I'd gone. New place. New people. New ball game. Shit, Adrian, I'm scared.”

“Relax. You'll be fine.” He couldn't believe it. The woman who terrified half the magazine industry, if not all of it, was scared witless of a housekeeper and two girls.

“I've never even seen his dog.”

“For chrissake, Fiona, if he can put up with yours, you ought to be able to make friends with a pit bull. Give them all a chance. Take a Valium or something. You'll be fine.”

They never had a chance to talk about it again for the rest of the afternoon. They were insanely busy, had endless meetings, and a thousand unexpected crises and problems cropped up. At least she spoke to John twice between meetings, and he sounded more normal again. She admitted to him that she was nervous about dinner, and he reassured her and told her he loved her. After that, she was less worried. It was just the newness of it all, and she had never had to meet anyone's kids, nor cared so much. She was sitting in a meeting with Adrian and four other editors at the end of the day, when he suddenly looked at her. And this time he looked panicked as he glanced at his watch.

“What time are you supposed to be there?”

“Seven-thirty. Why?” Fiona looked blank, with three pencils stuck in her hair.

“It's ten after eight. Get your ass out of here.”

“Oh, shit!” She looked as panicked as he did, as the other editors watched them, not knowing what it was about. “I wanted to go home and change.”

“Forget it. Wash your face, and put on lipstick in the cab. You look fine. Go! Go!” He shooed her out of the meeting, and she left at a dead run, apologizing vaguely, and called John on her cell phone from a cab. It was eight twenty-five by then. She was nearly an hour late, and she apologized profusely, and said she had lost track of the time in a meeting about a serious crisis that had come up about the December issue. He told her not to worry about it, but he sounded strained and annoyed. And when she got to the apartment, she saw why.

The apartment itself was large and handsomely decorated, but everything about it seemed cold and uptight. And on literally every surface there were framed photographs of his late wife. The living room looked like a shrine to her, and there was an enormous portrait of her on one wall, and on either side of it were portraits of the two girls. They had had them done just before she died. She was a pretty woman, and she had the look of a debutante who had grown up to be head of the Junior League. Even in the photographs it was easy to see that she had none of Fiona's panache and style, nor was she as beautiful. But she had the saintly look of the perfect wife. She was the kind of woman who normally bored Fiona to tears, but she instantly forced those thoughts from her mind, and entered the apartment apologizing profusely, and explaining about the meeting again. She was nearly in tears. John kissed her gently on the cheek and gave her a hug.

“It's okay,” he whispered, “I understand. The girls are just a little upset about their mother.”

“Why?” Fiona looked blank. Her mind wasn't working, she was too upset about being late to understand what he was saying. Why were they upset about their mother? She had been dead for two years.

“Because they think my being with you is a betrayal of her,” John explained hurriedly before they entered the living room. “They feel like I didn't love her, because I want to be with someone else.”

“She's been gone for two years,” Fiona whispered back.

“I know. They need time to adjust.” And she was an hour late. That didn't help. She felt sorry for him suddenly. He looked like he'd had a rough few days. And he had.

As Fiona walked across the living room, she saw two stern-looking young women sitting rigidly on the couch. They looked as though they had been forced there at gunpoint, and they nearly had. She'd seen happier-looking people in hostage situations, and they glared at her without remorse. Neither of them said a word.

Fiona walked over to the older-looking one of the two, who she assumed was Hilary, and stuck out her hand. “Hello, Hilary, I'm Fiona. It's nice to meet you,” she said politely, trying to sound both warm and unthreatening. And the girl glared at her and did not extend her hand.

“I'm Courtenay. And I think what you're both doing is disgusting.” It was certainly one way to start a conversation. Fiona didn't know what to say in response, and was frozen on the spot, while John looked as though he were about to faint or throw up.

“I'm sorry you feel that way,” Fiona said calmly, finding her tongue finally. “I understand. This must be hard for both of you. But I'm not trying to take your father away from you. We just like spending time together. He's not going anywhere.”

“That's not true. He already has. He's been living with you all summer. The doorman said he only came here to pick up clothes.” Fiona learned later that Mrs. Westerman had checked, and told the girls. The little dear.

“We spent some time together, and he's probably lonely here without you,” Fiona said, glancing at the other sister then. John looked crushed by the exchange, and as if he were about to burst into tears. He hadn't expected this reaction from his children, he was sorely disappointed in them, and deeply hurt. He had been loyal and faithful to their mother and her memory, he had done everything he could to save her, and stood by her till the end. And he had been there for his daughters, without reservation, ever since. Now they were begrudging him any kind of happiness with another woman, and had vowed to hate Fiona on sight, which they did. Beyond reason. “It's nice to meet you, Hilary,” Fiona continued, as she stood awkwardly in their living room, and no one asked her to sit down. John was standing next to her, looking devastated. He'd been going through this since San Francisco, and it had been totally unexpected. And relentless. He had no idea what to do with them, or how to turn it around. He was mortified that they had been rude to Fiona. He had told them that he expected them to at least be polite. He had also told them that Fiona was a wonderful woman, and it wasn't her fault that their mother had died. Nor his. But they had said they hated him and Fiona anyway, and cried all weekend. And so had he. Now he was running out of patience, and getting angry at them for being so unreasonable. Hilary was ignoring Fiona entirely. She was the prettier of the two, although they were almost identical and looked like twins. Both were blue-eyed blondes like their mother, but they had a look of John about them too.

“You both seem to have forgotten your manners,” he said sternly. “There's no reason to punish Fiona for going out with me. I've been faithful to your mother's memory for two years. Fiona has nothing to do with this. She's a free woman and she has every right to go out with me, and I have every right to be with her, if I choose.”

But before either of them could comment, a stern, spare, angry-looking older woman walked into the living room. She was wearing a navy dress with an apron over it, sensible black orthopedic shoes, and her hair was pulled back so tightly in a bun, she nearly looked like Olive Oyl, with none of the charm. She looked like an angry cartoon. Fiona had to fight an overwhelming urge to say “Mrs. Westerman, I presume,” but fortunately she didn't. Instead, John made the introduction for her, and Mrs. Westerman refused to acknowledge her, she just looked straight at him.

“Dinner's been ready for an hour and a half. Are you going to eat?” she said sternly to him. It was nine o'clock by then, and Fiona apologized to her as well for being late, and the older woman refused to even look at her, as she turned on her heel and stomped back into the kitchen. She clearly was on the side of the two girls, and the late Mrs. Anderson. Fiona couldn't help wondering if John's late wife would have been this unreasonable. It was hard to believe the level of hostility she was getting from them, harder still to understand.

John waited for the girls to stand up, and followed them into the dining room. It was definitely not going to be an easy dinner, and Fiona felt desperately sorry for him. He was doing all he could to keep the ship afloat. But she felt as though they were having dinner on the Titanic, and were going down fast.