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tomato-and-onion salad marinated in oil and vinegar and generously sprinkled with oregano was a perfect accompaniment to a roast leg of lamb. Her fingers were crossed that Maggie still loved lamb. When she was little it had been one of her favorites. Maybe I should have asked her, Nuala thought, but I want to surprise her. At least she knew Maggie wasn’t a vegetarian—she had ordered veal the night they were together in Manhattan.
    The potatoes were already bouncing in the big pot. When they had finished boiling, she would drain them but notmash them until the last minute. A tray of biscuits was ready to pop in the oven. The green beans and carrots were all prepared, ready to be steamed minutes before she seated her guests.
    Nuala peered into the dining room, double-checking. The table was set. She had done that first thing this morning. Maggie would sit opposite her in the other host chair. A symbolic gesture, she knew. Cohostesses this evening, like mother and daughter.
    She leaned against the door frame for a moment, reflecting. It would be wonderful to have someone with whom she could at last share this terrible worry. She would wait a day or two, then she would say, “Maggie, I have to talk with you about something important. You’re right, I am worried about something. Maybe I’m crazy or just an old, suspicious fool, but . . .”
    It would be so good to lay her suspicions before Maggie. Even when she was little she had had a clear, analytical mind. “Finn-u-ala,” she would begin when she wanted to share a confidence, her way of letting me know that this was going to be a very serious discussion, Nuala remembered.
    I should have waited until tomorrow night to have this party, she thought. I should have given Maggie a chance to at least catch her breath. Oh well, typical of me—I always act first and think afterwards.
    But she had wanted to show Maggie off to her friends after talking about her so much. And also, when she asked them to dinner, she had thought that Maggie was arriving a day earlier.
    But Maggie had phoned yesterday to say there was a problem with one of the jobs, that it was going to take a day more than expected to complete. “The art director is a nervous Nelly and is agonizing over the shots,” she had explained,“so I can’t start up until around noon tomorrow. But I still should be there by four or four-thirty.”
    At four, Maggie had phoned. “Nuala, I tried to call a couple of times earlier, but your line was busy. I’m just now finishing up and heading out to my car.”
    â€œNo difference as long as you’re on your way.”
    â€œI just hope I arrive before your guests so I’ll have time to change.”
    â€œOh, it doesn’t matter. Just drive carefully and I’ll ply them with cocktails till you get here.”
    â€œIt’s a deal. I’m on my way.”
    Thinking about the conversation, Nuala smiled. It would have been awful if Maggie had been delayed yet another day. By now she should be around Bridgeport, she thought. She’ll probably get caught in some commuter traffic, but at least she’s on her way. Dear God, Maggie’s on her way to me.
    Since there was nothing more she could do for the moment, Nuala decided to sit down and watch the early evening news. That would still leave her time for a nice hot, relaxing bath before people started to arrive.
    She was about to leave the kitchen when there was a rap at the back door. Before she could look through the window to see who it was, the handle turned. For the moment she was startled, but as the door opened and her visitor stepped in, she smiled warmly.
    â€œHello there,” she said. “Good to see you, but you’re not due for a couple of hours, so you can’t stay long.”
    â€œI don’t plan to stay long,” her visitor said quietly.

4
    A FTER HIS MOTHER MOVED TO F LORIDA , SELLING THE house that had