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worry,” Vick said. “I’ll make sure he understands.”
    She thanked him and, turning away, caught Jennifer rolling her eyes at what Vick had just said. Jane, pretending she hadn’t seen this, looked briskly about her. “Now, who else should I meet?”
    â€œYou can meet me,” came a husky, rather coarse female voice from behind her. Jane spun around.
    A tall, willowy woman with long ash-blond hair parted in the middle and a large beak of a nose walked straight up to Jane and put out her hand. “I’m your next million-dollar client.”
    Before Jane could react, the woman burst into raucous laughter. “I’m kidding. I’ll be some other agent’s first million-dollar client. I just heard you say you’re not taking on anybody new.”
    â€œRight,” Jane said. “And you are ... ?”
    â€œCarla Santino.” She put out her hand and held Jane’s in a viselike grip. “Waitress by day, future best-selling novelist by night.”
    â€œWaitress . . . Don’t you—”
    â€œLook familiar? Probably. I work at the Shady Hills Diner on Route Forty-six. I’ve probably waited on the whole town as some point or another. But I don’t intend to be there much longer.”
    â€œWell, good for you,” Jane said, eager to get away from Carla. Carla herself provided the getaway, pointing to a petite, mousy-looking woman who stood a couple of yards away, her hands clasped demurely in front of her, watching them. “Ellyn, get over here.”
    The mousy woman walked in tiny steps toward them and stopped. She wore a plain black skirt and a pink stretch blouse. Her curly dark hair looked as if it hadn’t had the benefit of a good haircut in years. She looked, it occurred to Jane, not unlike a brunette Harpo Marx.
    â€œHere’s my fellow best-seller,” Carla said, slapping the woman on the back. “Ellyn Bass—Jane Stuart.”
    â€œGlad to meet you, Ellyn. You’re also from Shady Hills?”
    â€œYes,” Ellyn replied. Her voice was high and squeaky. “But I don’t work like Carla. I’m only a housewife.”
    â€œDon’t ever say that,” Jane said with a smile. “You’re setting back the women’s movement by about thirty years. Say, ‘I don’t work outside the home.’ Much more p.c.”
    Ellyn nodded solemnly, as if completely unaware that Jane was being funny, or trying to be.
    â€œRight,” Jane said. “Any children, Ellyn?” she asked brightly.
    â€œFive-year-old twin girls.”
    â€œAnd a handful, let me tell you,” Carla put in. “I’ve served them enough to know. I’ve also served that husband of hers,” she added, rolling her eyes. “Nice-looking, but useless.”
    Ellyn made a little frown but said nothing.
    â€œWhat kind of writing are you doing, Ellyn?” Jane asked, now eager to get off the subject of Ellyn’s family.
    â€œI write romance novels.” A dreamy, faraway look came into Ellyn’s eyes. “I adore romance novels.”
    â€œHow wonderful. Do you know we have two romance stars with us as instructors this week? Bertha—I mean Rhonda—”
    â€œI know.” Ellyn rose up on her heels in excitement. “Rhonda Redmond and Jennifer Castaneda. I’ve read every book they’ve ever written.”
    At that moment another woman joined them. Jane was enveloped in a cloud of expensive perfume.
    â€œWho’s written?” the woman asked. She spoke with an aristocratic lockjaw drawl and was dressed to match in an expensive-looking tan silk pantsuit. Jane guessed her to be around fifty. Her hair was a subtle gold, swept back from her well-tanned face and turning up slightly at her shoulders. Jane was immediately reminded of the actress Dina Merrill.
    Jane opened her mouth to answer her, but the woman smiled apologetically. “How frightfully rude of