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monogrammed with her initials: AMC. The size and shape of a carpet bag, it was big enough for short trips, and sewn into the lining were eight elasticized pouches for shoes, into which she could also tuck toothpaste, hand lotion, shampoo.

“And I can take it myself,” she told him.

But the bellhop, who looked like a former Olympic athlete, deftly took it from her and led her across the wide lobby, a sea of pink and green, gleaming white latticework, moss-green diamond-patterned carpet. To Annie, it looked unreal, an old-fashioned Hollywood designer’s vision of tropical opulence, a mix of Casablanca and Road to Rio.

Upstairs, a pink corridor splashed with a trompe l’oeil of banana leaves led to her room, which overlooked a winding pebble path verged by islands of emerald grass, creeping philodendron, slender stalks of bird of paradise. Her bed, she saw, was the size of a small tropical atoll. And-God forbid she go hungry here-atop a reproduction Queen Anne writing desk sat a cellophane-wrapped basket of fruit.

Annie kicked off her pumps, and sank down on the bed. Despite the air-conditioning, in her silk-and-linen suit she felt as uncomfortable as if she were swaddled in thick wool. Well, if she ever moved out here, she’d have to buy a whole new wardrobe.

But who said anything about moving? Sure, she’d been toying with the idea, and not just since hearing about Bel Jardin. She could still keep her apartment in New York, and live in L.A. part of the year. Aad with the Rodeo Drive Tout de Suite opening next month, that would keep her hopping out here for a while anyway. And now, with Dolly and Henri supervising the manufacturing, her stores, and Felder’s boutiques, she could scout out some other West Coast locations as well. Why not a Tout de Suite in La Jolla, Sausalito, Carmel … ?

But business, she knew, would not be why she moved out here … if she did.

It was weird, but Annie couldn’t help feeling that coming out here permanently would somehow be running

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away. But not from Tout de Suite. She would work just as hard here as anywhere else, even though the business was now even more successful than she could ever have dreamed.

And not from Laurel… she felt closer to her sister than she ever had. And Laurel, in her sixth month and already big as a house, radiant, bubbling over, didn’t need her next door.

Was it that she’d be running from herself?

Or might the running be not away, but toward something … peace, contentment, the happiness that was always just beyond her reach? How many times did Rivka keep telling her, she ought to be married … have a family of her own? Thirty-four. In Rivka’s world, she was an old maid.

But the men since Emmett-tied to their mothers, their therapists, their jobs, their hobbies (Russ, with his passion for collecting antiques), their allergies (David, with a humidifier and a Dustbuster in every room), or simply their own egos. Most of them nice men, some of them amusing, fun for an evening or a weekend. But for a lifetime?

Why, when she had him, hadn’t she valued Emmett more? Why hadn’t she begged him to stay, to give her another chance?

And how would it be, seeing him after a year and a half? Would she feel only some pleasant nostalgia, like meeting up with a school chum? Or would she get all sweaty, heart racing, palms itching, as she had when he’d called? It seemed so damn unlikely, but could it be that she was still in love with Emmett?

Forget it.

Think about Bel Jardin, she told herself. How perfect if it were to be hers. Even if she lived in it only part of the year. Laurel and Joe could use it, too. And Adam and his little brother or sister would play on the same lawn where she and Laurel had played MotherMay-I and Hideand-Go-Seek. And so what if the place turned out to be all run down? She’d do whatever it took to restore it to the way it had been before Dearie got sick.

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Now, in her mind, she was ambling up the long curving drive, the petticoat palms rustling overhead, shadows from their long ragged fronds rippling out over the grass. And then the house coming into view, the color of a peeled grapefruit, all creamy yellow and white, with its curved terra-cotta roof tiles, and its windows and balconies adorned with filigreed wrought iron. Bordering the lawn in front, roses bloomed, and along the wide front porch, stone jardinieres held miniature kumquat and red-pepper bushes. And bougainvillea vines were growing up around the mullioned windows, displaying cascades of purple flowers… .

Oh, boy, there she went… getting ahead of herself again. Already living in Bel Jardin, and she hadn’t even seen it yet!

Soon, she thought, her heart again beginning to race.

Ar

./“xnnie, seated at a redwood patio table on the deck of the Crow’s Nest in Santa Monica, overlooking the Pacific, sipped her white Zinfandel and waited for Emmett. A Cinzano umbrella shaded her from the intense sun. Drifting out from the indoor dining area she could hear a guitar playing blues riffs; it sounded like Muddy Waters. Yetdespite the laid-back-sounding chatter, mellow laughter, the tinkle of ice in tall drinks speared with big chunks of unpeeled pineapple-she felt tense.

The tables around her, she noticed, were filled mostly with people even younger than she. Hip Californians. She eyed a ponytailed blond girl wearing a Hawaiian-print sarong, a white blouse knotted beneath her breasts that showed off a midriff so smooth and flat and uniformly tanned it looked unreal, like a doll’s. Her cornpanion, a guy in wraparound sunglasses, baggy shorts, and tank top, looked as if he could pose for a Coppertone commercial. They were leaning across the table and staring into each other’s eyes-or maybe it was just their reflections in each other’s sunglasses.

Annie, in her perfectly pressed slacks, gold silk blouse, high heels, and pearls, felt overdressed, out of

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place. Then she remembered arriving in New York all those years ago, how out of place she’d felt … and now look what a city slicker she’d become!

Would Emmett, too, take one look at her, and notice how she didn’t belong? God, what was taking him so long? It felt like hours since her Hawaiian-shirted waiter had brought her wine. But glancing at her watch, she saw that it wasn’t even three, which was when Emmett had said he’d get here. As usual, she’d gotten ahead of herself.

A shadow fell across her, and she looked up, shading her eyes. He stood with his back to the light, a stockily built man, his face hidden in shadow. But his hair … she’d have known him anywhere from that hair. Lit by the sun, its wiry ends glowed, the color of dying embers. Then he was bending down, warm, dry lips brushing her cheek. His smell-the familiar smell of kicked-around leathercutting through the Sea & Ski and pina colada smells around her.

“Hey, there, Goodlooking.” Emmett dropped into the redwood chair opposite hers. “You beat me to it. I was gonna have vintage champagne on ice when you got here.”

“I don’t think anyone here is interested in anything more vintage than today’s weather report.” She smiled, willing herself to remain calm, but she was feeling all wrong, her heartbeat picking up, her breath in this sparkling-clean sea air growing suddenly, alarmingly short. She folded her hands about the stem of her wineglass. “Hi, Em. It’s good to see you.”

“You’re looking prettier than ever. Success agrees with you, I can see. I read that piece on Tout de Suite in the Times magazine last week … it made you sound like a cross between Horatio Alger and Gloria Steinem. Photo didn’t do you justice, though.” He leaned back, hooking one leg over the other. “Congratulations, anyway. I didn’t know you were opening up a store out here.”

“Is that why you thought I’d be interested in Bel Jardin?”

“Naw. I’d have called if I’d heard you were moving to Borneo. I know how much that old place meant to you.”

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“Who said anything about moving?” She heard the defensive edge in her voice, and immediately wanted to kick herself.

Emmett seemed to stiffen, his easy smile now a degree less warm. Why had she said that? Was she trying to convince Emmett … or herself? But then, what if he guessed that the real reason she was sitting here might have more to do with him than with Bel Jardin? God, she’d die.

“Well, then, let’s just say that for whatever reason, I figured you’d be interested.” Emmett now was squinting out at the Santa Monica pier.

His blue eyes seemed lighter, as if in the year or so since she’d seen him they’d been bleached by constant exposure to the sun. She noticed little sun-lines radiating from their corners.

But otherwise, the same old Emmett. He hadn’t gone native, thank God. In his sporty-looking blazer, he looked plain relaxed. But then, hadn’t he always? She looked down, and saw those same old cowboy boots of his. More weatherbeaten, maybe, but obviously cared for, too, their old, stitched leather freshly saddle-soaped, heels newly shod. Seeing them, Annie felt an absurd happiness steal through her.

Before he could see the goofy smile she could feel imprinted on her face, she quickly bent her head, searching inside her handbag for her sunglasses. Slipping them on, she glanced at his broad, freckled hand. No wedding band. Well, that at least was something. But what did it prove? Not every married man wore a ring. And, besides, he could be engaged, or living with someone.

“I guess I ought to be congratulating you, too.” She had to change the subject. “I called your office, to confirm our appointment. A very nice lady told me you were out showing a house, but would I like to speak to one of the other salespeople? God, Em, how many do you have?”

“Just two full-time,” he said. “But they’re on cornmission only, so it’s not as if I have a huge overhead.” He nodded. “But, yeah, I’m doing okay. I like it out here. It ain’t Paris”-he gave her the full warmth of his grin. The

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back of her neck tightened with goose bumps-“but it sure beats El Paso.”

And you … how are you? she longed to ask. In love?

But all she said was, “Well, I’m not surprised.”

A waiter, she saw, was approaching.

Emmett pointed at her glass. “You want another wine?”

“No … thanks. I’d probably fall asleep on you. What about you-aren’t you having anything?” She prayed he wouldn’t order one of those California-tropical monstrosities.

“L๔wenbrเu,” he told the ponytailed young man.

Same old Emmett. Annie felt disproportionately relieved, and oddly excited.

“You’re probably wondering why I dragged you all the way out to Santa Monica,” Emmett said, “when Bel Jardin would’ve been a hop, skip, and a jump from your hotel.”

“Yeah, it crossed my mind.” Down on the sand, she saw, a volleyball game was in progress, teenagers in shorts and bathing suits batting a ball over a sagging net suspended between iron pipes. Mostly, what they appeared to be doing was kicking up a lot of sand. “But I don’t mind. It’s nice here. I’d forgotten what the sun feels like.”

“My place isn’t far from here,” he said. “It’s just down the road, as a matter of fact. I thought maybe we could stop there first. Would you like to see it?”

Annie felt something inside her catch, like a fishing line, after a long, hot morning of just trolling, suddenly pulling taut. She sipped her wine, which had grown warm. Anything, anything to make this stretched, strumming feeling go away.

“Sure,” she said.

“Well, okay, then.” He pulled himself to his feet. “Let’s roll.”

“What about your beer?”

“Forget it. Anyway, I’m driving.” She watched the volleyball shoot into the air and over the deck railing,

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Emmett catching it easily and tossing it back, as if he were one of the players.

Right now, if he’d asked her to, Annie would’ve gone with him to the moon.

“T

It’s kind of small,” he said. “I’ve got something else lined up … something a lot bigger. But”-he shrugged -“it’s not definite yet.”

Annie stepped over the threshold into a house that somehow appeared even brighter and sunnier than the outdoors. Glass, everywhere, as if the whole house were nothing more than panes of glass held together by a few sticks of wood. Walking over to look out the floor-toceiling window that spanned the entire rear wall, she felt an odd, almost dizzying sensation. The house, set a bit higher than those nearby, overlooked a beach and the ocean beyond. Small? Maybe so. But with this house, it seemed like Emmett had managed to wrangle hold, not just of land, but of the sky, the sun, the sea.

“Hi, you must be Annie.”

Annie turned and saw a barefooted woman walking toward her, hand outstretched. She didn’t look anything at all like the smooth-skinned blond Barbie Annie had imagined Emmett being married to. For one thing, she was no youngster; she looked about Annie’s age. A nice roundish face with brown eyes that crinkled up at the corners; not beautiful, but her smile was so warmly inviting she made you think she was. Her hair, the color of maple syrup, was a tousled mass of curls. She wasn’t especially tanned either. She was wearing dungarees cut off at the knees, and an old shirt streaked with different colors of paint. An artist? Yes, that would fit. Come on, hadn’t she known Emmett would never go for some brainless young pinup? And how good, how perfect, that he’d found a woman who looked so obviously right for him.

But her arm, as she reached out to shake the wornan’s hand, felt as if it weighed a ton. She could feel her heart sinking, her limbs growing heavy as if she’d suddenly

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found herself on a planet where the force of gravity was far stronger than the earth’s.

“Hello.”

Was that her voice, so normal-sounding, so businesslike? She forced a smile that felt stretched, insincere.

“I’m Phoebe.” Annie saw her shoot a mock dirty look at Emmett. “You could have at least warned me. Gosh, will you look at me? Standing here in my scuzziest clothes.” With the back of her paint-spattered hand, she pushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead, and laughed. “Oh, well, even if you had called I probably wouldn’t have changed. When I’m in the middle of painting, I sort of lose track of everything. Including myself.”