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parents had felt utterly betrayed when they learned that their gardener was under suspicion for murder. They'd given Quinn's father a dream job, after all, with a charming cottage for him and his son to live in, good benefits, and frequent raises. Frank Leary himself had once told Olivia that her mother was the best employer he'd ever had.
    To be fair, it was also true that the man was a wizard as a groundskeeper: The extensive grounds on the Bennett estate were the envy of the county and had been photographed for House and Garden a few months before Frank Leary and his son took off in the night. Naturally the HG piece never went to press—one more reason, Olivia supposed, for her father to resent them.
    Him.
    Damn.
    They were going to have to relive the murder all again—the discovery, the shock, the publicity, the depressing realization that Alison would never be a bridesmaid at Olivia's wedding and that Olivia would never be a bridesmaid at her cousin's.
    She remembered a Saturday in her junior year when Alison's father was out of town and Olivia's mother had taken Alison and her to New York on a clandestine shopping spree. Olivia had prepared for the day by reading a book on dressing for success, and then had headed straight for the racks of career clothing. Alison, on the other hand, had gravitated toward more feminine, sexier things: V necks that dipped low, and tops with front zippers.
    "You'll never get a job wearing something like that," Olivia had chided. She had been young and stupid then; what did she know?
    "I don't want a job,". Alison had answered. "I want a husband. I want to get out of my house and away from my father. He won't let me go away to a four-year college; I'm going to have to commute to ECCC. No thanks. You pick your clothes, Livvy, and I'll pick mine."
    When they found Alison at the quarry she was wearing one of those V-necked sweaters that she so preferred. She had put on weight because of the pregnancy: Her breasts were fuller than ever.
    Olivia sighed, then flipped the card that hung by a silken cord in the door window to its closed side. She turned down the lights in the shop and dimmed the recessed halogen lights that hovered over the window display. The holiday window was always her favorite of the year, and this December was no exception. She had draped elegant fabrics—bolts of taffeta, brocade, and tissue in glittering silver and gold—to flow like sparkling streams and tumbling wa terfalls into pools of shimmery opulence on the floor of the display window. With the lights dimmed low, the effect was of a winter scene at twilight: pure magic, if only you paused long enough to take it all in.
    And she did. Despite the unnerving news about Quinn's return, despite the surge of seventeen-year-old melancholy at thoughts of her murdered cousin, despite her dread that her family was about to be put through the wringer all over again—despite all those things, Olivia found herself responding to the exquisite beauty before her. It appealed to the artistic side of her in a way that gross receipts and profit margins never could.
    Once upon a time, she had hoped to design her own fabrics. But somehow the business side of her had taken precedence, and this was where she ended up: buying and selling textiles designed by people other than her. Ah, well. Miracourt was a financial success, and so was the mill-end outlet she'd opened six months ago to handle remnants and misprints she was able to buy dirt-cheap from her father's textile mill. For now, a life in commerce would have to do.
    She sighed again, not so cheerful as she had been before, and then she closed up the shop, dreading the slippery drive to her townhouse perched on a steep hill outside of town. She'd been too busy to go car-shopping for that four-wheel drive—or even to have the snow tires put on her minivan—and now she was kicking herself.
    I'm either at Miracourt or at Run of the Mill seven days a week. I don't have time to buy a