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all the way from Europe. But I hear you’ve already punched in for work—before you’ve even taken the time to tell me about all the fashions from Paris. How are you, Carolyn? Tell me all about the trip. Have you decided what you’re going to wear to the dance Saturday? Did you like that hotel I recommended in Paris? I hope it hasn’t changed too much over the years. One time I went back to a hotel after ten years and discovered it had converted to the hourly trade, if you know what I mean—no luggage necessary. So, how are you? Tell me everything. Oh, how silly, I didn’t tell you who this is. It’s Helene.”
    Who else could it be? Carolyn smiled, switching off the burner. “How are you, Helene?”
    Five months or five years away, no one could mistake Helene Ainsley’s scattergun conversational style. It was as different from Elizabeth Barron’s as the two cousins’ lives had been. A former model and fashion consultant, Helene’s bone structure still gave her a claim to beauty at age fifty.
    When Elizabeth had become ill three years ago, Helene had left New York without a question to nurse her. She’d stayed at Ashton after Elizabeth’s death fourteen months ago, saying that she might as well retire there as New York, especially since the air was a whole lot better in Wisconsin.
    “I’m fine. I always am. I wish I could get Stewart to take it easier, though. That man works too hard, just like you. What you both need is a good course in having fun.”
    “Taught by Helene Ainsley, I presume.”
    “Could be, could be. Who better?”
    “No one, I’m sure.” The laugh faded from Carolyn’s voice. “How has Stewart been, Helene? Before I left, he seemed so—”
    “I know. When Liz died, I wondered . . .  But these past few months I think he’s better. Do you know he even took a vacation up to the lake house? A whole week of just sitting around and fishing. Best thing for him. Now, when are you going to do what’s good for you?”
    “Helene—” Carolyn tried to ward off the imminent lecture with little hope of success.
    “What you need is someone to show you a good time, someone to light you up, make you glow. You’re too . . .  I don’t know, steady, I guess. You think too much. Everything neatly ordered, including your love life. I don’t suppose you did any high living over in England, did you?” Helene sighed deeply into the brief silence—silences were always brief with Helene. “No, I knew you wouldn’t. Probably not even in Paris, heaven help you. What am I going to do with you?”
    “Well, you could start by going shopping with me,” Carolyn offered as a diversion from the you-need-a-man-in-your-life theme she knew would follow. “I need something for the dinner-dance Saturday.”
    Perhaps a new belt or scarf to complement her black sheath. But she’d wait to tell Helene that. It would only start a lecture about her boring clothes.
    C.J. Draper’s drawl floated into her head. You ought to wear colors. Red. Green. Blue. Let ’em see you, instead of blending in.
    She shook her head, and the voice was once more Helene’s.
    “Done. Though why you didn’t buy some marvelous dresses while you were in Paris, I can’t understand. But I did see a few things at that new boutique at the mall that just might do. Pick you up in half an hour.”
    * * * *
    From the foot of her bed Carolyn contemplated the shopping bags cluttering its surface. What had possessed her?
    Helene, of course. She’d been caught up in a shopping tornado that had accumulated the most unlikely objects in its funnel cloud of fashion and deposited them here on her bed. And if she wanted to go to sleep, she’d have to clear away the debris.
    The first bag held a silky undergarment unlike any Carolyn had ever owned. She needed it because of the nearly backless teal dress Helene had convinced her to buy.
    Carolyn gave a little sigh of pleasure at the crackle of the taffeta skirt as she pulled the dress out of its