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    Charlotte Ann McNally
    6 Bexter Drive
    Brookline, MA
    Josh is looking at me. Expectantly.
    Dear Miss Manners. My boyfriend, who I crave and adore, has just asked me to marry him. Or maybe not. I’m a 47-year-old reporter and he’s a 49-year-old English professor, so you’d think we’d be able to communicate with some clarity, and that’s often true. But this time, I’m not sure I understand exactly what he’s talking about. Should I just say yes, and then clarify what it is I’m agreeing to? Marriage? Or living—as my newlywed mother would pronounce it—in sin? Or do I risk ruining the potentially most romantic moment of my life by asking for clarification first?
    And, Miss Manners, how do I know if it’s the real thing?
    “Charlie Mac! Duck!” Some unseen projectile swoops across the room, snags through my hair, then crashes into the pencil jar. Penny’s not far behind, waving her arms, running, her flip-flops slapping on the linoleum. “Did you see that? Daddy? Daddy? Did you see that? I can fly my plane! It flew, just like real!”
    The balsa wood plane I brought Penny has come to a landing, precariously tilt-winged, on the kitchen’s Formica runway. Penny grabs it, pretending to fly it into her father. Apparently her daddy-time alarm signaled we’ve been alone too long.
    Josh glances at me, then defends himself from Penny’s invading air force. My future is at stake. And a little girl flies an airplane into the room. I hate flying.
    “Watch it, kiddo,” Josh says. “No airplanes in the house. That goes outside. Now.”
    Penny puts one foot on her bare knee, standing stork-like, apparently considering her options. “You come out with me, daddo. Charlie Mac can…. Can…Well how about if I fly it inside but I don’t let go? That’s perfectly okay, right?”
    Nothing like an nine-year-old attempting to chaperone two adults. Penny’s in full swing now, holding the plane in one hand and piloting it through the room.
    Josh comes around beside me, takes my hand and keeps hold as he wraps his arm around me. “I don’t want to push you, Charlie. But I’m not going to let go of this topic, either.”
    I look up at him, as confused as I’ve ever been. I always know what to say. That’s my job. Now I’m as inarticulate as a newbie on a job interview. Do it, McNally. All you have to say is: are you asking me to marry you?
    With a hoot and a roar of jet engine noise, Penny flies out the back door. The screen door slams, and we’re alone. And then my cell phone rings. And then my beeper goes off.
    “Your master’s voice,” Josh says. “I know you mustobey.” With a grin, he lifts me by the waist and perches me on the kitchen island, holding me there. He looks into my eyes. Challenging.
    “Penny’s headed back to Victoria’s this afternoon. Do you, Charlotte Ann McNally, promise to come back here—tonight? Do you promise to think about me? Do you promise to consider what I’ve said?”
    I’ll figure this out somehow.
    “I do,” I reply.

Chapter Three
     
     
    “W

elcome back to bad news, Charlotte. So you got my beep? The Prada P.I. postponed our meeting. So now we have to wait to hear from her.” Franklin’s at his desk, holding two brown-and-tan logo-covered purses, one in each hand. He holds them out to me. “So meantime, here’s a quiz for you. Which one is the real thing and which is the copy?”
    At first glance, it looks like both purses are Delleton-Marachelle hobo totes. If they’re real, they’re worth at least four thousand dollars each. I’m embarrassed to admit to myself that I’d love to have one. I’m working on dampening my lust to own a designer bag displaying those intertwined D-M initials. It’s actually Mom’s fault. She educated my little sister, Nora, and me using Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar like textbooks for a course in acquisition. What to Want: 101. I know it’s unworthy. But I’m guilty. I want it.
    “You know how I feel about pop quizzes,”