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furious with Felicity! Was this some sort of publicity stunt on Felicity’s part? She doubted that this was Sienna’s idea of a comeback plan. Gigi examined the photo more closely. It looked as if it was taken in Sienna and Oliver’s backyard, which was adjacent to Felicity’s property. The carriage house that they lived in had once been a part of the estate that Felicity now owned.
    She was tempted to call Sienna—she must be very upset—but a glance at her watch told her she didn’t have time. Gigi scurried down to the kitchen, Reg at her heels, and donned a fresh apron. Her plan called for having everything ready so that Anja and the other servers could keep the hors d’oeuvres warm and ready to circulate. Felicity had insisted on Gigi attending the party, and Gigi had dug one of her little black dresses out of the closet—something she used to wear with far more frequency when she was married to Ted and living and working in the city. She planned to slip into it at the last minute.
    Gigi grabbed a saucepan from the pot rack and put it on the stove. Her hands shook slightly as she adjusted the gas burners on the Aga. What a luxury it was working in such a well-appointed kitchen. Her worries about Sienna increased as the water came to a simmer and finally a full boil. Would the shock of seeing that picture in the paper harm Sienna’s baby? Maybe she’d already gone into premature labor?
    Gigi could no longer tolerate the thoughts circulating in an endless pattern through her mind. She dug out her cell and punched in Sienna’s number. She waited until Sienna’s voice mail kicked in.
    Gigi turned back to the stove and dropped a bagful of miniature red potatoes into the pot of boiling water. She would partially hollow them out and fill them with a dollop of low-fat sour cream. Some would be topped with a sprinkle of red caviar; others would get a dash of chopped, fresh chives. Potatoes were great for soaking up liquor at a cocktail party. She’d passed the library earlier where two young men in short white jackets were setting up the bar with bottles of every liquor imaginable, dozens of crystal glasses and cocktail napkins festooned with a large, flamboyant F .
    Gigi was using a demitasse spoon to remove the insides of the potatoes when Anja bustled into the room. Her blond hair was swept into a low ponytail, and she had a knitted poncho over her shoulders.
    “I must be going out for something.”
    “What do you need? I might have—”
    But Anja was already shaking her head. “No, I am afraid you won’t have what I need. I am getting Miss Felicity some of the herb tea that they blend especially for her at Bon Appétit. She takes it every morning to help with the . . . how do you say it”—she made a sweeping motion down the length of her body—“getting rid of the water.” She looked at Gigi and smiled. “We are out, and she will need it tomorrow.”
    Gigi nodded, understanding. It must be Evelyn Fishko’s famous diuretic tea, Gigi thought. A combination of dandelion, cucumber and burdock that flushed excess water from the body. Evelyn was the owner of Bon Appétit and something of an amateur herbalist. Gigi knew that people from towns all over Connecticut came to her for her special blends thought to cure everything from edema to arthritis.
    “I must be going, then.” Anja tossed her scarf over her shoulder and started toward the door.
    She was stopped by an abrupt cry coming from the corridor. Both she and Gigi spun around.
    “Help. Oh, help. Someone, I need help.”
    Before either of them could move, Felicity burst into the kitchen. “Oh, help, someone,” she repeated. She was wearing a strapless, form-fitting, tiered fuchsia cocktail dress and was reaching behind her with both arms. “Help,” she repeated, dancing around the room, trying to reach in back of her.
    “What is the matter?” Anja put down her handbag and regarded her employer curiously.
    “I can’t get the zipper up,”