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against the wall, whose face she still couldn’t see.
    The light on the overhead pole caught her as she walked and cast her shadow into the alley, a long sinuous projection. It was an attractive shadow, like from an old black-and-white cartoon, long legs, an elongated, willowy figure (the kind she’d always secretly wanted), the miniskirt ridiculously, almost obscenely short in this greatly exaggerated layout.
    “Excuse me,” she called out when she was about a dozen paces from him. “Can I bum one of your cigarettes?”
    She felt he was looking at her. To see who was suddenly intruding on his space. She smiled to try to put him at ease, and moved closer.

W YATT AND MOIRA’S DINNER companions were the Fairchilds and the Dugans. They went to L’Angleterre. It was Gault-Milleu rated the best restaurant (and the most expensive) in the region ten years running, but if you could afford it, it was worth it for the wine list alone.
    Dennis and Marybeth Fairchild and Rod and Cissy Dugan were among their closest friends, going on two decades. Like Wyatt, Dennis and Marybeth were both high-powered attorneys, partners in different firms, and Rod was executive vice president and treasurer for Baldwin Aircraft. The net worth of the six people sitting at the table tonight, who had called ahead to have two bottles of ’85 Chateau Leoville Las Cases opened to have with their dinner, was deep into eight figures.
    “I want to propose a toast.” Marybeth raised her glass.
    “Hear, hear!” All glasses were raised. “To Wyatt Matthews, the man who brought Uncle Sam to his knees. To his knees !” Marybeth crowed. “Who got his own profile in Time. ”
    “Not to mention Forbes and Business Week ,” Rod added.
    They clicked glasses and drank.
    “Thank you,” Wyatt smiled, “and shut up.”
    “Shut up baloney,” Dennis said. “You the man, Wyatt. You kicked the government’s ass in one of the biggest cases of this decade, man. That is no small thing. Anyone who can take on the SEC, the Justice Department, and Common Cause at the same time and bring them to their knees is a player, palsie.”
    “Thanks,” Wyatt said, feeling uncomfortable. “Now let’s drop it, okay?”
    As they looked over their menus Cissy turned to Moira. “I think I found a location for our store that would be perfect,” she said, excited. “I’m meeting the Prudential agent tomorrow at ten. Can you come? You need to see it; you’ll fall in love with it.”
    Moira glanced at Wyatt. “I think I can.”
    Under the table, he put his hand on her knee and squeezed gently. “Go for it,” he encouraged her.
    She put her hand on his and squeezed back.
    Moira and Cissy had never worked. College educated, both women had married early, but instead of going into the workforce, they had stayed at home in the role of mothers and homemakers and supporters of their men and kids. Old-fashioned women, in today’s terms.
    But now their kids were suddenly older, leaving the nest; they’d gone from toddlers to teenagers with frightening speed. Moira didn’t want to be one of those women who grow old on the golf course, eating three-hour lunches and sitting around gossiping and getting drunk. Cissy didn’t, either; so a few months ago they’d decided to go into business together. Something small and manageable, and, if possible, with an artistic touch. Making money wasn’t the issue; they had money. They wanted to have fun and be their own persons, even if the scale was small and local.
    They envisioned a bookstore. Or a music store. Or a combination; sort of a vest-pocket Borders. With a cappuccino bar, of course. Maybe a fireplace, a focal area for readings and music.
    They even had a name picked out: Lucy & Ethel’s.
    “So what’s happening in everyone’s world?” Marybeth adroitly changed the subject. “Anything new and exciting?”
    “Our next-door neighbors were robbed,” Moira told her.
    “When?” Cissy asked.
    “About two hours