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and was soon smothered in white organza. Stepping back into the room, Lucy freed herself from her wedding dress. Holding it against herself, she turned to look in the full-length mirror. Magically, her bright pink robe and tousled hair disappeared and she was once again the bride who had walked down the aisle on her father’s arm to meet Bill at the altar.
    She remembered how she and her mother had searched and searched for that dress. They had trudged from one bridal shop to another for weeks before they spotted it, displayed in a second-story window on Lexington Avenue.
    â€œIt’s perfect,” her mother had assured her when she emerged from the dressing room.
    And she was right. The dress was just what she had been dreaming of. The bodice and short cap sleeves were made of alençon lace, and the waist was nipped in with a satin sash that topped a full, swirling organza skirt.
    Lucy remembered the fittings. How embarrassed she’d felt standing in her underwear while a terrifying seamstress with a mouthful of pins took all her measurements. She’d had to go back several times while the woman clucked over her. Worst of all was standing very still for what seemed like hours as she measured and marked and pinned up the endless yards of skirt and underskirts for hemming.
    And then, finally, her wedding day. Her mother and bridesmaids had fussed over her, taking forever to fasten the twenty or more buttons that went up the back. Then, sitting on a white sheet in the backseat of her uncle’s Cadillac, she was driven to the church, where the long, white carpet stretched before her. Clutching her father’s arm with one hand and her bouquet with the other, she had stood waiting for the organ chords that marked the beginning of Mendelssohn’s wedding march.
    â€œMom! We’re gonna be late!”
    Sara’s voice roused her from her reverie and she quickly replaced the dress in its box. She slid it back on the shelf and grabbed her best pair of khakis.
    Â 
    Lucy was only fifteen minutes late, having disregarded all speed limits and practically tossed the kids from the car at their various destinations, but Ted wasn’t amused.
    â€œIt’s deadline day, you know,” he told her.
    â€œI know—I had car trouble,” she lied, unwilling to tell him the real reason.
    Fortunately, there were no last-minute glitches and the paper was finished well before the noon deadline. To celebrate, Ted treated Lucy and Phyllis to coffee and doughnuts. They were gathered around Phyllis’s desk when the bell on the door jangled and they all looked up.
    The visitor was a young man in his late twenties. One glance told Lucy he wasn’t from anywhere around Tinker’s Cove: he had practically shaved his head and was wearing snug black pants and clunky green leather oxfords and had a messenger’s bag slung over one shoulder. He advanced, smiling to reveal a row of pointed teeth and a tongue stud.
    â€œI’m looking for the editor,” he said.
    â€œThat’s me,” said Ted, putting down his jelly doughnut and brushing his hand against his pants before extending it. “Ted Stillings.”
    â€œAndy Dorfman,” said the young man, grasping Ted’s hand and shaking it energetically. “From CyberWorld.”
    â€œReally?” Ted’s interest was piqued. Journalists from national publications rarely showed up in Tinker’s Cove. “How can I help you?”
    â€œWell, you know Ron Davitz is in town. . . .”
    â€œNo, I didn’t,” said Ted. “In fact, I don’t know who the hell he is. Why don’t you sit down and have a doughnut and tell me all about it.”
    â€œThanks.” Dorfman pulled up a chair and sat down. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him,” he said, taking a big bite of double-chocolate.
    â€œThey say he’s the next Bill Gates,” said Lucy and Phyllis in unison.
    â€œIs