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Tangee lipstick across her mouth, all leftovers from other girlfriends, whose pictures were pinned to a corkboard in Joe’s closet. Georgie stared at them sometimes, glossy black-and-white photographs of beautiful women. Horsewomen straddling Thoroughbreds, actresses in leopard-print scarves and fur coats, writers hunched artfully over typewriters, maybe daughters of rich men who did nothing at all. She couldn’t help but compare herself to them, and always felt as if she came up short.
    â€œWhat I like about you,” Joe had told her on their first date, over lobster, “is that you’re just so American . You’re cherry pie and lemonade. You’re a ticker tape parade.”
    Georgie loved the way Joe’s lavish attention made her feel—exceptional. And she’d pretty much felt that way until Marlene put one well-heeled foot onto the island.
    Georgie wandered into Joe’s closet and looked at the pictures of Joe’s old girlfriends, their perfect teeth and coiffed hair, looping inky signatures. For Darling Joe, Love Forever . How did they do their hair? How big did they smile?
    And did it matter? Life with Joe never lasts, she thought, scanning the corkboard. The realization filled her with both sadness and relief.
    On the way downstairs to meet Marlene, Georgie realized the lipstick was a mistake. Too much. She wiped it off with the back of her hand as she descended the stairs, then bolted past Joe and into the kitchen, squeezing in among the servants to wash it off. Everyonewas sweating, yelling. The scent of cut onions made Georgie’s eyes well up. Outside the door she could hear Joe and Marlene talking.
    â€œAnother one of your girls, darling? Where’s she from? What does she do?”
    â€œI plucked her from a mermaid tank in Sarasota.”
    â€œThat’s too much.”
    â€œShe’s a helluva swimmer,” Joe said. “And does catalog work.”
    â€œCatalog work, you say? Isn’t that dear.”
    Georgie pressed her hands to the kitchen door, waiting for the blush to drain from her face before walking out. She took her seat next to Joe, who clapped her heartily on the back.
    The dining room was simply but elegantly furnished—whitewashed walls and heavy Indonesian teak furniture. The lighting was low, and the flicker of tea lights and large votives caught on the well-shined silver. The air smelled of freshly baked rolls and warm butter. Nothing, Georgie knew, was ever an accident at Joe’s dinner table—not the color of the wine, the temperature of the meat, and certainly not the seating arrangement.
    She’d been placed on Joe’s right at the center of the table. Marlene, dressed in white slacks and a blue linen shirt unbuttoned low enough to catch attention, was across from Joe. Marlene slid a candle aside.
    â€œI want to see your face, darling,” she said, settling her eyes on Joe’s. Georgie thought of the ways she’d heard Marlene’s eyes described in magazines: Dreamy. Smoldering. Bedroom eyes.
    Joe snorted, but Georgie knew she liked the attention. Joe was incredibly vain; though she didn’t wear makeup, she spent time carefully crafting her appearance. She liked anything thatmade her look tough: bowie knives, tattoos, a necklace made of shark’s teeth.
    â€œThis is Marlene,” Joe said, introducing Georgie.
    â€œPleased to make your acquaintance,” Georgie said softly, nodding her head.
    â€œI’m sure,” Marlene purred. “I just love the way she talks,” she said to Joe, laughing as if Georgie wasn’t at the table. “I learned to talk like that once, for a movie.”
    Georgie silently fumed. But what good was starting a scene? If I’m patient, she thought, I’ll have Joe to myself in a matter of days.
    â€œI’m sure Joe mentioned this,” Marlene said, leaning forward, “but I ask for no photographs or reports to the