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“Dumb, dumb, dumb.”
    â€œIt’s not so bad. He probably got someone to take him home and didn’t realize the purse was on the floor. I’ll just go home and call the hospital. Maybe someone there can get in touch with him.”
    Bitsy unlocked the door to her BMW, motioned for Chris to get in, and plunked her own small body into the plush red seat. At forty-three she was still slim and graceful on ice, moving effortlessly with her students through difficult choreography. On land she was an ox. On land she stomped and plunked and stumbled with unconscious abandon.
    Bitsy turned the BMW onto Little River Turnpike. Half a mile up the road the two women simultaneously spotted Chris’ abandoned tan hatchback on the far shoulder. They gave it a cursory glance, as if it belonged to some unknown person, and continued on to the next light.
    â€œOld news,” Chris said finally—her thoughts returning to the car.
    Bitsy was familiar with the Chris Nelson philosophy of car care. “Time to buy a new one, huh?”
    â€œFive weeks too early. I have my money tied up in a savings bond that doesn’t mature for five more weeks.”
    Bitsy gave another series of clucks. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” She pulled into Chris’ subdivision and rolled to a stop in front of her house. “Let me guess,” she said, pointing to the blue pickup parked at the curb. “Is this the phantom truck?”
    â€œOh no! What’s he doing here?”
    Bitsy chuckled. “I imagine he’s in there having tea with Aunt Edna.”
    â€œJust what I need. Edna’s convinced I should remarry. Remember poor John Farrell? And last week she arranged a date for me with the guy who came to read our electric meter. Edna’ll take one look at Ken Callahan and think she’s gone to matchmakers’ heaven.”
    â€œWow. That nice?”
    â€œAn eleven, no sweat. And I don’t want to have anything to do with him. I like my life just the way it is.” Chris slammed the car door behind her and took twelve feet of sidewalk in two strides. She turned, waved at Bitsy, and hammered on her front door.
    Aunt Edna bellowed, “Hold your pants on,” and glared out above a security chain. “Well, good golly,” she complained, “what with all that thundering, I thought it had to be some lunatic escaped from Lorton prison. Why didn’t you just use your key?”
    â€œIt’s in my purse, and I don’t have my purse with me.” Chris pushed past Edna. “Where is he?”
    â€œYou mean that nice Ken Callahan?”
    Chris moved from the foyer to the living room, to the dining room. She felt her patience evaporating and clenched her teeth to keep from shouting. “Yes. ‘That nice Ken Callahan.’ Where is he?”
    Aunt Edna blocked the doorway between living room and dining room. She stood five feet tall in sensible sturdy brown shoes, and her snow-white hair was tightly curled in rows marching obediently across her gleaming pink skull. She had snapping blue eyes—and a body like a fire-plug. “It was just like Goldilocks,” she cried, slapping her leg. “I took Lucy to school, and when I came home there he was—sleeping in your bed.”
    Chris felt her voice rise to a shriek. “In my bed?”
    â€œHe’s such a nice man, dear. And he looked so peaceful, tucked under your big down quilt.”
    Her eyes widened in a mixture of outrage and disbelief. “Under my quilt?”
    The stairs creaked behind Chris, and she whirled around as Ken sauntered into the room, looking sleepily sexy and perfectly at home.
    â€œI don’t know how two tiny women can make so much noise,” he mumbled. “What’s all the racket about?”
    â€œ You! How did you get in here? And what were you doing in my bed?”
    He rubbed the back of his neck and grinned. Evidently remembering his cast, he diligently raised it