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always has been. He just rents my guest room for a few months once a year or so.”
    Before he could tell Jamie he was planning to make other living arrangements, his brother brought up a new subject.
    “Honey, I forgot to tell you my brother knows that anchorwoman, the one named after a flower. Verbena?”
    “Violet,” he corrected.
    Pamela turned her too-white smile on him. He’d been fighting the impulse to stare at people’s teeth ever since he returned from Tibet; apparently a new craze had everyone bleaching their teeth to blinding brightness.
    “You know Violet Gallagher? I was hired by her station to decorate her townhouse when she first moved to Boston, but it didn’t work out.” The laughter she tacked on to the end of every statement was starting to annoy him. Hadn’t Jamie noticed it?
    He shrugged. “As I told Jamie, I just met her once at a party.” He shot his brother a warning glance, which he ignored. As usual.
    “I was afraid my little bro was the father of her child.”
    Jake drained the rest of his beer while the other two laughed at Jamie’s comment, and jumped up to get another one from the refrigerator.
    “No,” Pamela said. “I know who the father is.”
    “How would you know that?” Jake asked without thinking.
    She was oblivious to the reproach in his voice and continued blithely on, her eyes sparkling in a way they hadn’t until now. He added gossiping to the growing list of her faults.
    “Well, she wanted to do her own decorating, and I can only imagine how it turned out! But I went to her townhouse for two consultations, and both times there was a man staying with her. He said he lived in California, and I heard him on the phone talking to his wife. One of those bicoastal guys. I suspected she was pregnant even then, and of course a couple months later it was public knowledge. I got a good laugh out of that trumped-up story about a sperm donor.”
    Jake returned the unopened beer to Jamie’s fridge. He’d need something much higher octane than beer to tolerate Pamela.
    “Tell me, did the lawyer from California look a lot like Violet?”
    She appeared to think about it, but instead of her brow wrinkling in concentration like a normal person’s, her eyes just got wider. Botox?
    “They both had the same really dark hair, I guess, and blue eyes. Why?”
    “Because that was her brother. Not the father of her child.” He headed for the hallway, and turned around when he reached the doorway. “And one more thing. Her townhouse looks great.”
    He was almost to the elevator when he heard his brother behind him.
    “Jake? What just happened? Where are you going?”
    He’d like to go back to Tibet. That might be just about far enough away from Pamela, and people like her. But he’d miss the chance to get to know Daisy, to hold her chubby hand while she learned to walk, and hear her say “dada” for the first time. But he was going to miss all those things anyway. He’d be — where? He couldn’t even remember. Someplace with beautiful scenery, where he’d take pictures of native women holding their babies and be haunted by visions of Violet and Daisy.
    “Just grabbing my boots. They’re right here by the door.”
    • • •
    Jake had said he’d arrive midmorning on Sunday so he’d have plenty of time to set up the cameras before Carrie came home, but this time Violet didn’t stress about pastries, Daisy’s schedule, or what to wear. She might have to share her child with Jake Macintyre, but she didn’t have to act like a foolish schoolgirl in his presence. Until she opened the door and saw him. His tousled curly hair and sleepy-looking eyes made her think he’d just gotten out of bed. “Jake” and “bed” in the same thought made heat rise to her face.
    “I hope you have coffee.” Oblivious to her flushed face, he dumped a stack of boxes in her foyer and headed for the kitchen. He took a mug from the cupboard as casually as if he’d lived there for