Mrs. Stumbo had put the issue of Los Angeles Magazine on her bed table. Nora thought she’d thrown it in the trash but perhaps she had not. She picked it up and carried it to the bench in front of her dressing table. Perversely, she turned to the back of the magazine and worked her way forward, page by page, until she found the two-inch-square photograph that had changed so many things. There was Thelma with her red hair and doting smile, smug in her role as Channing’s consort for the evening. The term zaftig came to mind, meaning the sort of blowzy female sexuality men lusted after: big breasts, narrow waist, flaring hips. The tops of Thelma’s breasts bulged upward, threatening to flop out of the strapless white evening gown. The bodice was so tight that when she’d zipped it up the back, two mounds of underarm fat were forced over the edge of the dress in puffy white rolls.

Nora squinted and looked more closely at the photo. The dress had to be a Gucci. She knew the care he took with every stitch, the tucks and darts, the beading.

Shit.

She got up, took the magazine to the window, and peered again. Details came into sharper focus as the sunlight streamed in. Was that her gown or was she seeing things? Thelma’s diamond earrings looked like duplicates of hers as well. She’d noticed the similarities when she first saw the photo, but she’d been so taken aback by Thelma’s transformation she hadn’t registered the fine points. For a moment, she stood stock still, immobilized by indecision.

She tossed the magazine aside and crossed the hall to the study. Her day planner was open at today’s date. In the square for each appointment, she’d written the telephone number of the individual she was scheduled to see. The lunch date and the spa visit were simply dealt with. She picked up the phone and in two calls cleared her afternoon. It was as though the real Nora had stepped aside and someone else had taken her place. She was clear-headed and single-minded. The symphony tickets would be trickier to finesse. She was on the verge of dialing Belinda’s number when she stopped. The symphony was at 8:00. If she left now, she’d be back in plenty of time. She checked the clock. 12:15. The chances were good she’d catch Channing at his desk.

By habit, he was in his office by 7:00 A.M. and worked through until 1:00, when he went out for lunch. His driver would ferry him into Beverly Hills or over Benedict Canyon and into the Valley where he’d meet a client at any one of a number of restaurants. La Serre was his current favorite, with its soft pink walls, pink linens, and white trellising. Most of Channing’s practice was what he described as “transaction based”: intellectual-property disputes, copyright and trademark infringements, contract negotiations, and talent agreements. Lunches out provided the opportunity to socialize, to see and be seen, cementing the relationships that were at the core of his success. He’d be back at his desk by 3:00 and put in another four hours before he called it a day.

She tried his number and when Thelma picked up the call, Nora used her cheeriest tone of voice. “Hello, Thelma. This is Nora. Could you put me through to my husband?”

She could almost feel the chill when Thelma realized who she was. “One moment please. I’ll see if he’s available,” Thelma said and put her on hold.

“You fucking do that,” Nora said to the empty phone line.

When Channing picked up, he’d turned on the charm. Obviously, Thelma had alerted him she was on the line. “This is a rare pleasure,” he said. “I can’t think when you last called in the middle of the day.”

“Don’t be sweet to me, Channing, or I’ll never get this out. I owe you an apology. I honestly don’t remember your mentioning the dinner dance. I’m not saying you didn’t tell me. I’m sure you did, but the subject must have gone in one ear and out the other. I shouldn’t have been so adamant.”

The brief tic of silence was one she might not have noticed if she hadn’t anticipated his surprise. “I appreciate that. You were probably caught up in something else and didn’t register the date. I take part of the blame myself. I should have verified that the lines of communication were open. Enough said?”

“Not quite. I’ve been thinking about it all week and I realize how far out of line I was. I shouldn’t have ambushed you like that when you were heading out the door. You had enough on your mind.”

“I was anxious to hit the road,” he said, “and I didn’t take the time to hear you out. I know these charity events can be tedious.”

“True, but I was exaggerating a tiny bit to make my case. That said, you can’t use my confession as ammunition.”