It had turned hot and muggy since the weekend, and since the Oldsmobile’s air conditioner didn’t work, the first thing Summer did when she got into the car after seeing Riley was roll down all the windows. Backtracking the way she’d come, she drove through downtown Charleston and found her way to the interstate. When she hit freeway speed, she rolled the windows back up partway so the wind wouldn’t whip her hair into a frizz during the long haul back to Georgia. By the time she’d done all that, more or less on autopilot, her brain had begun to function again.

Oh, Lord, I did it. She had herself a lawyer. A good lawyer. She felt confident of that. She’d done some research on this Riley Grogan, and from what she’d been able to gather, he was one of the best in Charleston, South Carolina. Relatively young-not much more than forty-but already highly respected… and rich, which was maybe a better measure of his effectiveness. He was also single, which she gathered was somewhat of an uncommon state for a respectable Southern male past twenty-five years of age to be in. Coupled with the fact that the man was handsome as sin, was known to dress as impeccably as any blue-blooded aristocrat, and had a reputation for being suave as the devil himself, that might have raised a few eyebrows and more than a few slyly phrased questions, were it not for his regular appearances at Charleston social functions with one marginally famous beauty or another draped on his arm. Hostesses known for their elegance and sophistication, it was said, were often reduced to stammers and blushes in his presence. If Riley Grogan still reigned at the top of a short list of the South’s most eligible bachelors, then the consensus of opinion-especially among mothers of Charleston debutantes-was that it must be because he simply hadn’t found the woman who could live up to his standards of beauty and style, wit and intelligence.

All of which impressed Summer not the slightest bit. She cared nothing for the man’s looks, pedigree or sexual orientation. There was one thing she cared about, and one thing only: what kind of lawyer was he? The Riley Grogan she’d run up against that day in court, that was the man she wanted working on her side. She had no use for charm and elegance. What she wanted was the street fighter-someone cold, calculating, ruthless and manipulative, tough as nails and mean as a snake. After all, her children’s lives were at stake.

Oh, but there was no use denying it-he had made her knees go weak just now. What was it about the man that made her blush and stammer like a hillbilly in her first town dress? What was it about Riley Grogan that ate away at her confidence so? She’d never suffered from a lack of poise and self-assurance before, not since she’d learned the hard way that a handsome face and winning personality were foolish ways to measure the worth of a man. Hal Robey’d had a smile so sweet it’d fool bees into thinking it was honey, as her dad used to say.

But Riley, now…what he had was something different than your ordinary, garden-variety charm. Something more. What he had was an elegance so effortless that it could make even duchesses feel inadequate and prima ballerinas trip over their feet. And by the time she’d reached the Highway 78 turnoff to Augusta, Summer had decided that she knew what it was that gave the man that elegance. It was the very same quality that made him so intimidating in a courtroom-quietness. Riley Grogan was quiet the way a big cat is quiet, like a leopard draped along a limb or a lion lounging in the shade of a banyan tree, somnolent and relaxed, in the absolute certainty that he is undisputed lord of all he surveys.

A sudden shiver ran through her, a joyous little energy surge. Oh, but it felt good to be plugged into such awesome power and massive self-confidence after so many months of fear and uncertainty. Everything was going to be all right now.

At a stoplight in Augusta, Summer checked her watch and decided there wasn’t going to be time to stop at the Winn Dixie before she picked up the kids. The church day camp she’d found for them allowed for some flexibility in pickup times, but she was running late as it was and she didn’t like to push it. The day camp had been a lifesaver. She’d found out about it from Debbie Mott, her boss’s wife, who was sending her kids there as well.

The children were waiting for her outside in the heat instead of in the air-conditioned building as they usually did. From halfway down the block, Summer could see them sitting on the brick planter that ran along the walk in front of the church. Both had the same pose-elbows on knees, chins propped on hands-but somehow David’s attitude managed to convey dejection, while Helen’s had the ominous look of a small black storm cloud

Uh-oh, Summer thought as she pulled up to the curb, her recent euphoria only a memory. What now?

“Hi, babes,” she sang out with cheerful optimism, wincing as David wrenched open the car door and clambered across the back seat without answering, followed by Helen, who flounced in after him and gave the door a mighty tug that latched it on the first try Her heart sank farther as she beheld their flushed faces; the Waskowitz skin couldn’t keep a secret if lives depended on it. She turned to smile at her offspring over the back of the seat. Two pairs of eyes flicked at her like beacons, but neither was smiling. Her son’s eyes shimmered with embarrassed tears; her daughter’s were bright with fury. “Did you have a good day?” Summer asked with faint hope.

The only reply was a click, as David fastened his seat belt and turned to gaze steadily out the window. Helen scooted forward and pushed an envelope over the back of the seat, then fanny-walked herself back into place.

Summer caught the envelope and said brightly, “Oh, what’s this?”

“It’s a note from Mrs. Hamburger,” said Helen in a disgusted tone. “She wants to speak to you.”

“It’s Mrs. Hammacher,” Summer automatically corrected her, then sighed with foreboding. “Oh, honey, what did you do?”

Helen stared at her shoes and was stubbornly silent.

“David?”

He turned from the window with a look of reproach, as if, Summer thought, whatever it was was somehow all her fault. “She filled up a water pistol with grape juice,” he said in a hollow tone “During morning snack time.”

“Oh, Helen.” Summer closed her eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t actually squirt anybody with it. Grape juice?”

“Well, I did,” Helen muttered defiantly, watching her Marvin the Martian sneakers bob up and down. “I squirted Jason.”

“Jason? Jason Mott?”

“You should have seen him,” David put in eagerly. “He had on one of those neat T-shirts, you know, with the red-and navy-blue designs on them, the ones that cost about fifty bucks and you said I couldn’t have one? It was all purple, Mom.”

“Oh, Helen. Why?”

Helen’s chin, fragile-looking as a blossom and an infallible barometer of her intractability, jutted upward. “Because he was being mean to me.”

“Mean to you?” Summer’s hopes flared; here, at least, was the possibility of some mitigation. “How?”

“Well…” The shoes bobbed furiously. “He said I talk funny.”

“You do talk funny,” said her brother.

“Do not!”

“David…”

“He talks funny. And he called me a name.”

“What name?” Summer braced herself. “Come on, honey, tell me what Jason called you.”

“He…he called me a yankee,” Helen huffed. “I don’t even know what that is. Mom, what’s a yankee? It sounds nasty.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

All Summer could do was shake her head; she had a hand clamped tight across her mouth to hold back a gust of laughter.

“Plus, Jason told Keisha her hair looked ugly and hurt her feelings. She was crying.”

“Who’s Keisha?” Aha, this sounded better. Definitely grounds for justification.

“Keisha’s my friend, and her hair’s not ugly,” said Helen. “She has millions and millions of little tiny braids. Mom, can you do my hair like that?”

“I doubt it.” Summer looked at her daughter’s rather sparse blond curls. Both of her children had inherited the Waskowitz coloring, like their aunt Mirabella-fine red-gold hair and fair, tell-all complexions. “And don’t try and change the subject, little girl. Jason was wrong to make Keisha cry, but you still shouldn’t have squirted him with grape juice, of all things.” A delayed realization struck her. “And where did you get a water pistol, anyway? You know how we feel about toy guns of any kind.”

The two children exchanged guilty looks.

“David?”

“Don’t look at me, Mom.”

“Helen? Answer me this minute. Where did you get the water gun?”

Helen stared at the toes of her sneakers, which were no longer bobbing. Her chin sank onto her chest. “I took it.”

Oh, God. It was worse than she’d thought. This was serious stuff, in the world of childhood, a class-A felony. “Helen,” said Summer in a voice low with dread, “do you mean to tell me you stole it?” Helen’s head moved slowly up and down Her brother made a disgusted noise. “Where? Who did you steal it from, Helen? Tell me right now.”

Helen’s voice was barely audible, and seemed to come from the vicinity of her belly button. “From Jason.”

“From Jason? You mean, you…” Shot him with his own gun?

Summer put a hand over her eyes. Silence reigned in the back seat as she counted slowly to ten, then turned back around and put the car in gear. “Buckle up,” she said briskly. “Now.” There was a subdued and dutiful click from Helen’s side. Summer had just put on her blinker and was starting to pull away from the curb when she had to hit the brakes and wait for a fire engine to roar by, siren screaming. Right behind it came another one. Then another.

“Wow,” David breathed, following their progress with avid eyes, “it must be a really big fire. Can we follow them and see, Mom? Can we?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Summer, who in adulthood had developed a city-dweller’s indifference to emergency vehicles. “Hey, what do you guys want for dinner? I didn’t have time to stop at the store. You feel like pizza?”

“Aren’t we going to get Beatle and Cleo and Peggy Sue?” David asked in a worried vice. “They’ve been at Jason’s four whole days, Mom. First you said it was just for the weekend while we were at Aunt Bella’s, and then you said just till you got back from Charleston, and now-”

“I know, I know,” Summer interrupted him with a sigh. She met her son’s accusing frown in the rearview mirror. “But I’m not sure it’s such a good idea to go over to Dr. Mott’s right now, do you? After what Helen just did to Jason? Maybe we could let things cool off a little bit first?”

“Things” meaning Jason’s mother, Debbie. Debbie Mott was a former high school cheerleader and beauty queen who’d given up on getting her figure back after her third child and made up for it in the self-esteem department by being somewhat of a snob. Summer was well aware that she wasn’t Debbie’s favorite person-she had good instincts for things like that-and suspected it had something to do with the fact that she spent most of every day sharing the intimacy of a motor home with Debbie’s lean, lanky and still reasonably good looking husband. Summer didn’t really think Debbie had enough influence in such matters to get her fired over this grape juice incident, but the next meeting between them didn’t promise to be a pleasant one, and it definitely wasn’t something she felt like tackling on an empty stomach. She’d call first, she told herself. This evening, when Dr. Mott was likely to be home to referee.

She watched David’s eyes spark with understanding, then flick resentfully toward his sister. “I guess,” he said unhappily. “It’s just, I hope they don’t think we abandoned them, or something. Jason said his mom made Cleo stay on the porch because she was making so much noise. He said she says bad words. Does she, Mom? How come I never heard her say any bad words?” He sounded disappointed.

“Maybe she never felt the need to,” Summer muttered. She sought her son’s eyes in the mirror once more. “Honey, I miss the animals, too, but they’ll be fine at Dr. Mott’s for one more night, okay? I promise we’ll go get them tomorrow. Right now, let’s have something to eat-I’m starving. So how about it? Pizza sound okay to you guys?”

“Can we have tacos?” Helen piped up. “We haven’t had tacos for a million years.”

“Then we’re definitely due. What about it, Davie? Tacos okay with you?”

“Sure.” In the mirror, Summer watched him shrug and go back to staring out the window, his face somber, a vaguely depressed slope to his shoulders.