She raced through a mental list of what else it could be. Robert?

Portia felt a shiver of hope, but guilt quickly followed. If something had happened to Robert, the knowing would surely have had her buying champagne.

Back at the apartment, she put the flowers on the table and started to pace. Finally, hoping for a distraction, she turned on Evie’s ancient television. It was tuned to a news program and still working.

“The investment firm Atlantica General has confirmed the loss of two billion dollars of investor money. It is being reported that the loss was due to fraudulent trades by the firm’s Low Risk group. If allegations of malfeasance are true, no doubt people will go to jail over this.”

Portia’s heartbeat flared, slowed, and then flared again. Cordelia’s husband, James, worked for Atlantica General. Worse, James worked in the Low Risk group. Since starting at Atlantica ten years earlier, he had been a rising star, becoming one of the most successful young bankers at the giant.

She sat down hard, only to jump up again when someone knocked at the door.

Portia raced over and yanked the door open to find her other sister, Olivia.

“Did you hear?” Olivia said.

“About James?”

“Yes,” her middle sister said without so much as a hello or hug as she walked in the door.

Back in Texas, Portia knew that the three Cuthcart sisters had been considered three kinds of blondes. Cordelia, the oldest, was pretty with her straightened hair and patrician nose. If Cordelia had been born to resemble a queen, middle-sister Olivia had been born to be the nymph. With her Cupid’s-bow mouth and violet eyes, she lured men in to the rocky shores of her world. Portia knew that while her sisters were queens and nymphs, she was considered cute, the girl next door. There were worse things to be, sure, but just once she would have liked to be the beautiful one or the exotic one.

Today, Olivia wore olive-colored cargo pants that hung low on her hips, a multicolored yoga top that showed off her beautifully sculpted arms, and some sort of shoe that looked equal parts comfort and fashion. Olivia was the wild child of the family, living in a walk-up apartment on the Lower East Side, a serial dater who had broken more than a few men’s hearts. Why she refused to settle down was a mystery to her sisters, a mystery that Cordelia and Portia had dissected from every angle but still didn’t understand. Though Portia was starting to think that Olivia was just smarter than they were. Than she was, anyway.

Olivia glanced at the table and raised a brow, but didn’t say anything.

Portia knew that look. Olivia didn’t particularly care one way or the other about the knowing. As far as she was concerned, it had nothing to do with her. But that didn’t mean she liked it.

“God, I hope that fourth setting isn’t for James,” Olivia stated, turning from the table. “Though you’d have to think he’s probably surrounded by lawyers. Or cops.”

Portia shivered.

Despite the crispness of her words, Portia knew why her sister was there. Long ago their mother had made her daughters promise that no matter where they were or how angry they were at each other at the time, if one of them needed the other, they would be there. No questions asked.

Which meant Portia knew what would happen next.

Cordelia sailed into the apartment like a perfectly dressed mother duck, not a hair out of place on her head, her subtle hints of makeup perfectly done, her blue eyes alert, determined as she set her expensive handbag on a chair.

At thirteen, Cordelia had perfected the jaundiced arrogance of a girl who believed she had all the answers. At thirty-five, Cordelia still felt she had all the answers. Where Olivia had always been considered the passionate sister, the oldest Cuthcart girl never showed any sort of emotion at all.

“We saw the news,” Portia said. “Is everything okay with James?”

Cordelia’s always stiff upper lip trembled.

“Jesus, Cordie,” Olivia stated with all the calm certainty that there was no problem too big to be solved. “Is James getting arrested?”

“Olivia,” Portia barked, just as Cordelia blurted, “No!”

Portia sagged. “What a relief.”

“Not a relief,” Cordelia stated. “He wasn’t a party to the bad deals, but part of the two billion dollars was every penny of our life savings.”

Cordelia stood there in her cashmere and pearls, her standard uniform for all the charity work she did in the city, tears in her eyes.

Portia wrapped her arms around Cordelia. Olivia just stood there. Portia gave her a look, after which Olivia gave a silent sigh, then came over and joined the hug.

“I am not crying,” Cordelia stated, even as tears rolled.

“Of course not,” Portia said.

“Nope, not you,” Olivia added.

They stood that way for a few seconds, their hearts beating nearly as one until Portia broke the spell. “Stop stepping on my toes, Olivia.”

Olivia burst out laughing. “I knew you couldn’t take more than a few seconds of hugging.”

“I can take hugging, Olivia. You’re the one who can’t take it. That’s why you stepped on my toes.”

But then they turned back to Cordelia.

“You’re going to be okay,” Portia said.

“Absolutely,” Olivia added.

Cordelia stepped away, smoothed her bob, straightened her blouse, and drew a deep breath. “I love you guys,” she whispered, and quickly cleared her throat. “It really is okay. But I’m stressed and I can’t show it in front of James.”

If Olivia was like a decadent chocolate-covered strawberry, and Portia a pineapple-and-spice hummingbird cupcake, then Cordelia was peanut brittle, still sweet, though with something more substantial added by way of peanuts, but unbendable.

“James says it’ll be fine. So it will be.” She raised her chin. “I’m sure it’s not every cent of our life’s savings. I’m overreacting, which is childish.” Tears welled once more; Cordelia drew a deep breath and shook them away. “I just needed to let it out, then see that it isn’t so dire. I couldn’t do that at home.”

Portia shot Olivia a quick glance, but she didn’t say what she was thinking—that Cordelia always put a good face on a bad situation.

Cordelia caught sight of the food in the little kitchen, then turned and stared at the wooden stools around the island, the plates, the flowers. But when Olivia caught Cordelia’s eye and raised a brow, Cordelia looked away. Portia had asked her oldest sister once why she hated the knowing so much that she generally pretended it didn’t exist. Cordelia had dismissed the question out of hand. But Portia still wondered.

The three of them pulled up around the makeshift table and served each other plates piled high with Portia’s feast. No one mentioned the unspoken question hanging in the air. Who was the last seat for? Instead, Portia and Olivia caught up on every bit of Texas gossip until Cordelia was able to breathe again, quickly turning back into the oldest sister.

“It’s time to talk. I’m not the only one with problems,” Cordelia said, breaking in. “You’ve moved in here, Portia. But have you figured out how you’re going to support yourself?”

Olivia shook her head and sat back. “Sheez, Cordie, give her a break. She’s barely divorced.”

“Barely doesn’t have any influence on a bank balance.”

“She’s right, Olivia. But I’m working on it.”

“Really?” Cordelia got one of her know-it-all looks. “What are you thinking about doing?”

“Okay, so I don’t know yet, Cord. But something will come to me.”

“Let’s make a list of possibilities.”

Olivia groaned. “You and your lists.”

Portia agreed. More than that, she knew this wasn’t headed anywhere good. “Maybe later.”

“There’s no time like the present,” Cordelia stated, her cheer exaggerated and fake.

If Portia hadn’t known that her sister mainly wanted to distract herself from her own problems, she would have fought harder. As it was, she didn’t know how to say no when her sister said, “Let’s brainstorm.”

“Cordelia—”

“It’ll be fun!” Even more fake. “Just us girls, letting dreams run wild.”

Olivia all but rolled her eyes. “You know she’s not letting this go.”

“Fine. I could be an assistant,” Portia stated.

“Assistant to whom?”

Only Cordelia, and grammar zealots, would use whom in a casual conversation. Portia considered. “To an executive.”

“You don’t type.” This from Olivia.

Portia glared at her one supporter. “Fine.” She glanced back at Cordelia. “Then maybe I could be an editor.”

“As if they don’t type? Besides, an editor of what?”

Portia shot Cordelia a look. “Books.”

“You barely graduated from high school—”

“I graduated!”

“But the only class you liked was Home Economics. I can’t believe any school still offers those classes. Definitely don’t tell anyone in New York about it.”

“Why not?”

Cordelia didn’t bother to answer. “I know what you could do. If anyone asks, tell them you went to cooking school. They teach cooking in Home Ec, right? They’ll eat that up. New Yorkers are all about food.” Cordelia hesitated, then said, “You know that.”

Portia eyed her. “I don’t cook.”

Her sisters glanced at the meal in front of them.

“This was an aberration,” she said. “I do not cook. Not anymore. You know that.”

Cordelia and Olivia exchanged a glance.

Portia knew they were going to say something, something she wouldn’t want to discuss. “Stop. Really. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get a job. First thing tomorrow I’ll start working on my résumé.”