Tilda came in carrying a can of blue paint, her hair standing up all over her head in little curls. “Are you okay?” she said. “You look sort of poleaxed.”

“I’m fine,” Gwen said. “Stop running your fingers through your hair. You look wild.” Tilda patted her hair, which did nothing, and Gwen said, “Do you ever think about staying home and taking over the gallery?”

“No.” Tilda squinted at her reflection in the office window and patted her hair again.

“Okay,” Gwen said, feeling hugely disappointed even though she’d known that was what was coming.

“Because I’ve got at least another decade of murals to finish first. Do you want me to?”

“No,” Gwen said. “But I didn’t want to stand in your way.”

“Nobody stands in my way,” Tilda said and carried the paint can out through the office.

I should be like that, Gwen thought, and imagined announcing to Ford, “Nobody stands in my way.” Although why it had to be Ford was a mystery. She should say it to Mason. “Mason, you’re a nice person, but I don’t want you to run the gallery.” Although if he’d get them out of debt, the whole family would be free. He could have the gallery if he’d get them out of debt. At this point, he could have her if he’d get them out of debt.

Davy came in from the street, whistling, and went into the office.

Of course, that would mean she’d never scuba dive. But the family would be safe.

That was the problem. Once you’d given birth, you never really thought “I” or “me” again. It was always “we.” What’s best for “us.” Even though what’s best for “us” was often lousy for “me.” She had two beautiful children and an equally beautiful grandchild, all of whom were fairly happy and healthy and who loved and supported each other. She didn’t have to go to a horrible job every day, she could work Double-Crostics whenever she wanted, and nobody ever said, “Gwennie, don’t do that.” At least not for the past five years anyway. It was all good.

Well, mostly good. While it was true that Tony had been domineering, there’d also been some very nice things about him. Like sex, for example. That was a loss. She’d been okay with celibacy, but then it had started raining men at the Goodnights’ and suddenly she was getting a lot of lunches. And pina coladas. Maybe she should think about it, make a plan. She was only fifty-four. Mason was clearly interested, a good steady man who understood finance and loved the gallery. Really, it was a no-brainer. She closed her eyes and tried to seriously imagine a life with Mason.

Scuba diving, she thought, and her mind washed through with blue-green water and bright-colored fish, like one of Homer’s paintings, only real, with sun on her face, and the water flowing over her body, and Ford-

Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought and got up to move the chairs into the office. She could sweep the floor. That didn’t involve tools. Or a great deal of thought.

Tilda came out of the office with a paintbrush. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Gwen said. “Couldn’t be better.”

“Davy wants to paint the front today.” Tilda nodded her head back at the office where Davy was now looking doubtfully into an open paint can, Nadine frowning over his shoulder. “We might have to block off the entrance.”

“And that would be a problem because so many people come in?” Gwen said. “I don’t-”

The street door to the gallery opened, and an older man with dark red hair and darker eyes came in, something about him very familiar. “Hello?” Gwen said, trying to place him.

“Hello, darling,” the man said, and Gwen had one horrible moment when she thought he might have been somebody she’d slept with before Tony and had now completely forgotten. He was somewhere between fifty and eighty, so the age range was right.

“Do I know you?” Gwen said, fingers crossed that she didn’t.

“Call me Michael, love,” he said, so innocently her eyes narrowed. “I’m looking for Davy Dempsey. Tall boy, dark hair. Is he here?”

“Davy?” Tilda said, surprised. “He’s back-” She stopped because the man smiled at her warmly and detoured around her to open the office door. “Uh, wait-”

Inside the office, Davy looked up and froze, and Gwen thought, It can’t be another hit man. How many people hate this guy?

“I should have known,” the man said to Davy, his voice light. “Me on the road, running for my life, and you here with a daisy hand.”

“Daisy hand?” Gwen said.

“Three queens,” Davy said grimly. “Hello, Dad.”

“HOW THE HELL did you find me?” Davy said, when he was staring at Michael across the table in Simon’s room. It seemed odd that there was nothing on the table. He kept expecting Michael to pull out a deck and start dealing.

“That friend of yours, Simon,” Michael said. “I called him in Miami a couple of weeks ago, looking for you.”

“And he gave me up,” Davy said, planning on having a talk with Simon later.

“It took some persuading,” Michael said.

Davy sighed. It was Michael. Simon hadn’t had a chance.

“And then it took me a while to get here,” Michael went on. “I had commitments. And Greyhound is not the Concorde.”

“You took the bus?” Davy said, dumbfounded. “That’s not like you.”

“I am temporarily embarrassed of funds,” Michael said, with the ghost of a grin.

“I would gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today! My father, Wimpy.”

“I have to keep a low profile,” Michael said. “There appears to be a warrant out for me.”

“That also is not like you.” Davy sat back, unconcerned. “You usually don’t get caught.”

“There was a woman,” Michael said darkly.

“There always is.”

Michael grinned at him. “You should talk. I walk in and find you with three. You’re me all over again, boy.”

“I am nothing like you,” Davy said.

Michael laughed. “You’re right, you’re nothing like me, you are me. Of all my children, Davy boy, you’re my heir.”

“Oh, good. I’ve always wanted to own two decks of marked cards and a penny whistle.”

“Now, Sophie,” Michael went on as if he hadn’t heard, “she had the skill, right from the beginning. She could look at you with those big brown eyes and take you for everything you had. But she didn’t have the heart for it.”

“She has morals,” Davy said, thinking, And because of that, she’s a soft touch, which you know all too well.

“And little Amy, she loved it, but she didn’t have the skill. Too scatterbrained. But you, you were born for this. You have the skill and the heart, you have it all, you could be greater than I am-”

“Oh, spare me,” Davy said, fed up. “Look at you, the Great One. On the lam at sixty, scamming for quarters, playing monte for motel money, that’s your idea of greatness?”

“It’s action, isn’t it?” Michael said. “That’s what Nick the Greek said.”

“Yeah, that’s what Nick the Greek said when he was washed up, playing two-bit poker instead of high-roller,” Davy snapped. “That’s what he said before he died broke. Is that how you want to live?”

“It’s living.” Michael leaned forward. “It’s not sitting around wishing you were living and denying what you were born for. It’s not shilling for the freaking FBI.” He shook his head at Davy. “You miss it. Don’t tell me you don’t. What are you doing for the kick these days, Davy my lad? Picking daisies?”

“Okay,” Davy said. “Back off on the Goodnights. And in Gwen’s case that means literally. She’s got a steady guy with money who’s getting serious. Stay away.”

“Ah, that’s not for her,” Michael said. “Women like Gwen Goodnight do not go for steady men.”

“She deserves somebody she can count on,” Davy said. “That is not you.”

“She deserves a damn good time,” Michael said. “That’s most definitely me. Besides, she can’t count on anybody. Nobody can. You’re born alone and you die alone, Davy. So you better know yourself, because you’re the only one who ever will.”