Siobhan had wanted nothing more than to return the ring, but she could not endure another confrontation with Edward. She mailed the ring to Edward at his office. Again the ring appeared on her doorstep. Siobhan got it: the ring caused Edward pain, he didn’t want it, and he didn’t need the money he would get if he returned it.

Fine, she thought. It went into her sock drawer first, then into the secret compartment of her jewelry box, a hiding place straight out of the mystery stories her boys liked to read. The ring, when she thought about it, irked her. It was like a pesky tag in her knickers, a pebble in her shoe, a popcorn kernel between her back molars. She should sell it, pawn it; it would still fetch thousands and thousands of dollars, which she, unlike Edward, could really use. But she couldn’t bring herself to sell it, stupid as that sounded, and if anyone asked her why (which no one would, as no one knew she had the damn thing except, possibly, for Edward), she would say it was because she wasn’t ready to let it go. Whatever that meant.

Damn Edward for calling and ruining her pleasant morning! Damn Claire for meddling!

As she was filling and wrapping the spring rolls, Siobhan called Claire. It was nearly noon. Now that Claire was “back at work,” she told Siobhan she was “only available” at lunchtime.

“Hey,” Claire said, her mouth full.

“Edward Melior?” Siobhan said.

“Excuse me?”

“Edward is heading your catering committee?”

“Oh, yeah,” Claire said. “Jeez, I forgot about that. Are you pissed at me?”

“A little.”

“Well, don’t be. He volunteered for it.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to freak you out.”

“What freaked me out was being caught off guard.”

“Well, I’m glad he finally contacted you,” Claire said. “You’re going to give him a bid, right?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll take you as long as you’re lower. Even a little bit lower. You know that.”

“I know. But I don’t know what lower is, do I?”

“No, you don’t,” Claire said. “I don’t know, either. I didn’t look at the other bids.”

“No, of course not. You’re as pious as the pope’s mother,” Siobhan said. She considered mentioning Carter’s gambling loss but decided against it. Twelve hundred dollars was not the end of the world; he claimed it had been tip money, anyway, his own discretionary income. Don’t overreact, baby. If Siobhan told Claire about it, Claire would worry and the whole thing would get blown out of proportion. “How’s it going in the shop?”

“Ohhhhhkay,” Claire said. “Still trying to finish the vases for Transom. They’re not as easy as I thought they would be, and Elsa wants them in time for Christmas. And I have to start the chandelier for the gala auction. That’s what I really want to be working on.” Big sigh. “Lock keeps telling me I’m an artist, not an artisan.”

“Lock has a warped perspective,” Siobhan said. “He has nothing else to spend his money on other than museum-quality glass. Well, and private school tuition. And wax for his Jaguar. And cuff links. And Daphne’s meds.”

“And viognier,” Claire piped in.

“What?” Siobhan said.

“Nothing,” Claire said. “It’s his favorite wine.”

“Ooohhh,” Siobhan said. “Nice that you know his favorite wine. I wasn’t sure Lock Dixon even drank wine. He has such a pole up his ass.”

“He does not,” Claire said.

“Yes, he does,” Siobhan said.

“No, Siobhan, he does not,” Claire said. “He’s nothing like that. You don’t know him.”

“Sure, I do. He’s as self-righteous as the born-agains.”

Claire said, “I have to go.”

Siobhan rolled up another spring roll, eight rows of eight, sixty-four. They were all plump and perfect, like swaddled babies. “Call me later,” Siobhan said. She hung up.

Siobhan prepped the marinade for the satay, thinking, Edward Melior, pink calla lilies. It’s too late to write a note for them now. It would look shoddy. Thinking, Viognier. It’s his favorite wine. Not Edward’s, but Lock Dixon’s. Lock Dixon kept telling Claire she was an artist, not an artisan. Siobhan was a caterer, not a chef, not a genius; she had scored Bs and Cs during her years with the nuns. She sometimes got so caught up in the mood of things that her common sense suffered. Her husband had managed to gamble away four figures right under her nose. Right under her nose. It’s his favorite wine.

Was something going on between Claire and Lock Dixon? Never! And yet, it sounded like it. But Claire was a straight arrow; she was all caught up with being good and kind and sending positive energy out into the universe. She was all about her kids and the lofty precepts of art, and besides all that, she had a sex life with Jason that was directly out of Cosmo. Claire would never have an affair. And if she were, impossibly, having an affair, she would never keep it from Siobhan. Claire told Siobhan everything; she told Siobhan about her menstrual cramps, her hangnails; she told Siobhan when the mail arrived or the toilet backed up. It’s his favorite wine. Such a curious statement, and Claire had said it so proudly, so proprietarily. Claire and Lock Dixon? Never! And yet . . . it sounded like it.

Siobhan catered the Montessori dinner to enormous kudos, she got Edward the bid for the gala, she kept an eye on Carter’s gambling, she delivered the boys to and from their endless hockey practices. At Christmastime she went crazy around the house, cooking and decorating: she baked figgy puddings, she made smoked salmon dip with homemade Parmesan pepper crisps, she did a gingerbread house with the boys, even though they had outgrown it and did little more than eat all the candy. Her gift to her friends this year was wreaths made out of dried hydrangea and the giant pinecones that fell from the firs out by Tupancy Links.