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“Let’s not make this into too big a deal,” he countered. “We’re not talking Make Room for Daddy here. But, yeah, I guess things are loosening up a little. Get this—last week my mother and the great Marcus Daugherty finally deigned to eat in my restaurant. I’m thinking of having a brass plaque inscribed and put over the table where they sat.”

“Don’t make fun, Joe. I think it’s nice that they came.”

Oddly, she sounded a little like Rivka now. He and Annie had always laughed at how Laurel liked to scold him and mother him, as if he weren’t eleven years older than she was. Eleven. Count them, buddy-boy. But he wasn’t laughing now. These days, he had to keep reminding himself of the gap in their ages.

“So do I, actually.” He was glad … or maybe just relieved. This tug of war between him and his parents had been going on so long, he didn’t feel the least bit smug about the fact that he’d won … if that’s what he’d done. He was just glad that it was over. His father, he sensed,

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had felt the same way. Following his coffee and a couple of Armagnacs, Marcus had seemed almost . . , jovial. Maybe he was mellowing. Maybe the old man and he both were. “It’s just that I would’ve liked it a lot better if he’d remembered to leave a tip. I had to make it up to Maria out of my own pocket.”

“He probably just forgot.”

“My father? Never. That was just his way of saying, ‘Don’t think, young man, that just because I’m here I’m letting you off the hook.’ I suppose he’s reminding me, too, that corporate lawyers make a helluva lot more money than restaurateurs.”

Laurel laughed. “I like your father. He’s got … character.”

“We Daughertys have never been short on character.”

As they reached the corner, he watched the corpulent but nimble Mr. De Martini unpacking a box of oranges onto his sidewalk display. They looked bright and luscious.

Remembering that Laurel, if she’d come straight from the Port Authority, might be hungry, Joe asked, “Have you eaten? There may be some wine at this art show, but not much in the way of edibles.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I had a sandwich on the bus. I’m not all that hungry.”

“Come on, that long ride, you’ve got to be starved. It’s almost seven.”

“No, really. Joe, I-“

Leaving her on the sidewalk, he ducked into De Martini’s, and grabbed a bunch of red grapes and a handful of the tiny, mouth-puckeringly tart kumquats he knew she loved. On impulse, he snatched a yellow rose from a bucket half f&l of them, on the floor by the register. Returning to Latarel, and handing her the bag of fruit and the rose, he saw her eyes widen in delight.

Watching her bite into a kumquat, her mouth puckering at its tartness, he thought, Christ, she’s beautiful. Those blue eyes of hers, with their thick, dark lashes. Her perfect, straight nose with a narrow plane on either side of the bridge that made it appear almost bevelled.

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And those lips …

He realized he wanted to kiss her. Very much.

I must be losing my mind.

“Why didn’t you call and let me know you were coming?” he asked, needing to keep on pretending that this visit of hers was one of those spur-of-the-moment things.

“I tried. Last night. You weren’t home.”

Joe remembered. Yeah, it was slow, and he’d taken a night off. An old Exeter friend, Curtis French, had dropped by, and they’d gone over to St. Mark’s Place to catch a revival double feature, both movies starring Eve Dearfield.

Somewhere between the ticket booth and the popcorn line, it had hit him, / must have come here because of Annie. In Eve Dearfield, her face, her voice, would he recognize Annie? He’d seen all those oldies on TV when he was a kid, but not since he’d known Eve’s daughters. And these days, by the time he got home from the restaurant, he was too bushed even to turn on the TV.

And the thing was, he had felt as if he were seeing Annie. It was uncanny, eerie. Not a mirrorlike physical resemblance, but in movements, gestures, like the jaunty way Eve tipped her head back when she spoke, and dropped one shoulder slightly when she meant business. The way a corner of her mouth hooked down when she cried, as if a part of her stood back from her misery, mocking her. And that wonderful moment, when she told Stewart Granger to go to hell, then put out her cigarette in his champagne. That was so much like Annie, something she might have done.

Annie. He loved her … he missed her … and, dammit, yes, he wanted her. All of her, even her brashness, her sharp corners that were forever prodding him like a shirt with too much starch in the collar. For months, years even, he’d put off telling her how he felt. It was too soon, he told himself. He wasn’t ready to get serious. Things were just taking off at the restaurant, and he was working his tail off to make ends meet. But gradually, as his life began to settle into comfortable grooves, when the

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prospect of a wife, kids, no longer seemed part of some nebulous future, he began looking at Annie with new eyes, wondering how she’d react. Did she love him? Maybe. But he knew that with Annie there was no such thing as going halfway-and was she really ready for a husband, house, kids on top of opening her own business? No-she was on fire, needing to prove herself somehow … as if she hadn’t already. Wait, he’d told himself, wait until she’s ready … until she wants this, really wants this, as much as you do.

But why, if he loved Annie, was it Laurel he felt drawn to now? What was it about her that made him want to hold her, lie down beside her, sink into her as he would into cool, still water?

Get a grip on yourself, for God’s sake.

This isn’t a movie, he told himself. This is real. Somebody could get hurt. Hurt real bad.

But it wasn’t until a couple of hours later, back from the opening-which had turned out to be so crowded and noisy that he suspected his mother, despite her distracted wave in his direction, had hardly noticed he was there—that Joe realized one of the people who got hurt could be him.

He’d intended to wind up the evening with a quick goodnight peck and the promise of doing something together tomorrow. But as he was letting himself into his apartment, Laurel clung to him and whispered, “Let me stay with you tonight, Joe.” Her voice was quiet, controlled, but he could hear the slight tremor in it. He knew her so well; he knew it was when she was scared that she acted the most nonchalant. In that way, she and Annie truly were sisters.

Joe felt as if he’d been sucker-punched. Christ. Had he heard right?

“Laurey, I …” His voice choked up on him. He cleared his throat, and took her hand, which felt powderdry. Annie’s hand was always slightly moist when he held it. “Look, I have a feeling that no matter what I say it’s not going to come out right, and I …”

I’m in love with your sister. Is that what he meant to say?

But was it even true? How could he be in love with Annie if he felt this attracted to Laurel?

“… I don’t want to hurt you,” he finished, feeling weak, cowardly. Hearing footsteps ascending the stairs below, he gently pulled her inside, into his narrow vestibule, and shut the door. It was dark, but he didn’t reach for the light switch.

“You don’t love me,” she said, and made a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh. She tilted her head back, and in the thin light that trickled in under the door, he could see the glint of tears. “Oh, I know that.”

“I …”

“You love me, but you’re not in love with me. Is that it?”

She was putting on such a show of being brave and worldly that he felt even more torn; if she had melted into tears, or gushed like a teenager, it would be so much easier to soothe her. To pat her on the back, and tell her how honored he was, and that she’d get over him someday. But Laurel, somehow, when his back was turned, had grown up.

“I could tell you that things might be different,” he spoke softly, with great care, “if this were ten years from now, and I was meeting you for the first time.” He smiled. “But then I’d be middle-aged, with a receding hairline or maybe completely bald, and”-he thought of his father”I’d smoke cigars and read the Wall Street Journal religiously. And you … well, you probably wouldn’t even want to know me.”

“You’ll never read the Journal religiously.” She laughed shakily, then with a fierceness that seemed to leap out of nowhere, she said, “Joe, this isn’t some crush. I love you. I always have.” Her eyes, in the shadowy dimness of the vestibule, cast a fine, gray light.

Before he could stop her, or stop himself, she was slipping her arms around his neck, drawing him to her. He felt her flesh against his, cool and silken, and her lips,

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tasting of the kumquats she’d finished off on the way home, their citrusy tartness stinging him lightly. Now her lips were growing softer, sweeter. Jesus. He wanted to tear himself away, stop this … stop her from pulling him in the wrong direction … but, Jesus … oh, Jesus, her mouth … her sweet mouth …

She’s just a baby, he tried to tell himself.

But he knew it wasn’t true. Laurel was no baby, and never had been. Not since he’d known her. Sometimes laughing, sometimes serious, but always this little woman. It was Laurel who, in the summer, remembered to put little cloth bags of cedar shavings in with her and Annie’s wool sweaters. And who, in the winter, put seed out on the windowsill for the birds. Ordinary things … but she somehow wasn’t ordinary. Not with that imagination of hers, and the wild, wonderful, fanciful things that seemed to spring from her head onto paper when she drew.

But he had to stop this. Stop it now. Before it was too late. Before he’d taken a path that would lead him forever away from Annie.

Joe drew away, a button on his sleeve snagging against one of the little mirrors on her dress, tearing it away with a small, popping sound. He felt himself trembling, on the verge of doing something he’d surely regret. He had to stop himself. Now. Quickly.

“Laurey, this isn’t … us. It’s just, well, things are different now …”

“Annie, you mean.” Her voice was shaking now; he could hear the tears close to the surface. “You think this has to do with Annie being gone. That I’m somehow … that us being on our own … that I’m just overreacting.”

“No. This has nothing to do with Annie.” He could tell from the way she was looking at him that she didn’t believe him.

“Okay then.” She pulled in a deep breath, and reached for the door knob, twisting it sharply. “Okay.” Forcing a smile that appeared almost ghastly, she said, “Well, goodnight.”

She opened the door and walked out, out into the hallway, her shoes clicking against the stairs with hard,

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rapid strokes, and Joe, watching her go, ached. He ached to call her back. To take her into his bed, wrap himself around her, make love to her. But if he did that, wouldn’t he be hurting her even more?

Annie watched as tiny white-maned Monsieur Pompeau peered into the pot of couverture she had been stirring. With the backs of his fingers—more sensitive than the tips, he’d told her—the elderly chocolatier briefly touched the melted chocolate, testing its temperature.

She held her breath, her heart racing. Was it all right? Such a simple thing, but after two weeks at Girod’s, she still had trouble melting chocolate without somehow scorching the bottom or causing the cocoa butter to separate from the solids into curdled-looking clumps.

Was the water in the bottom of the double boiler too hot? It should be no more than eighty-nine degrees, Pompeau had said. But gauging the temperature, that was the tricky part. He did not believe in thermometers; he claimed they were not accurate enough.

So far the chocolate-or couverture, as it was called-looked okay, dark brown and satiny. Still, she felt herself tense as Pompeau dipped a long-handled stainless spoon into the pot and raised it to his lips. The taste would be only the first test, before she added the hot cream that would turn this into ganache-the truffle’s soft center. But it was really she who was being tested. And this afternoon, when Henri Baptiste arrived back from Marseilles, Pompeau, she knew, was bound to give a report on her—whether she had any promise as a chocolatier … or not.

And would she too be shown the door, like the two before her that Henry had told her about, that absentminded

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Italian who was always spacing out, like putting chestnut paste instead of almond in the massepain cr่mes, and Cointreau instead of cognac in the Escargots Noirs; and the French girl with ten thumbs who was always dropping things? Apprenticeships at Girod’s were precious, the waiting list endless. After a week or two, if one didn’t show both a willingness to work hard and a deft touch, one was replaced. And if Pompeau gave her a bad report, Henri would feel he had to dismiss her. Even being Dolly’s niece probably wouldn’t cut her any slack.

Annie nibbled a fingernail. God, please. She needed to stay, to learn. Otherwise, the whole brilliant career she’d dreamed of for herself would be derailed. Then how could she face Joe? She’d have failed before she even started. And soon he’d come to realize she wasn’t smart enough or talented enough for him.

But if she could make this work, she’d be able to open her own shop-and soon, make her own handmade chocolates. In a little more than a year, she’d come into the money Dearie had left her. Enough to rent a vacant store, install a small kitchen, somewhere with a low rent. But, first, so much depended on—

Pompeau’s wizened face puckered, concentrating as he ceremoniously tasted the couverture. Annie felt herself daring to hope. Such a simple thing—how could it go wrong?

A hundred ways, she reminded herself. A thousand. Each day, Pompeau watched her like a hawk, criticizing her every move. Nothing was ever quite good enough. The ganache was not bad, but not precisely as it should be—too much liqueur, not enough cream. Or the couverture—which, when tempered, became the truffle’s dense outer coating—not firm enough. For the marrons glac้s, she had to mash the chestnuts more finely. For the leaf-shaped chocolate-cream feuille, she had used the wrong molds. Yesterday, as she was ladling hot ganache onto a stainless cooling tray, he had shrieked at her, What do you think, thees ees cement you are pouring?