"That settles it," the old woman shouted with spunk. "I will stay here tonight, and tomorrow morning, Caroline will help me write my memoirs."

A crash came from the doorway. Julia wheeled around to see Caroline standing there, her arms outstretched but empty; the birthday cake she had spent six hours baking and decorating from scratch lay at her feet in a heap of frosting and smoke, as five crooked candles burned in the rubble. Caroline stood in the mouth of the massive room, gasping, not even noticing that her Hello Kitty cake was roadkill.

"You're staying here, Aunt Rosemary?" Julia asked, trying to play on the old woman's aversion to change. "Do you really think you'll be comfortable?"

"I suppose I will be." She grunted, then added, "Though it is a dreadful house."

Cassie began to cry, but Madelyn swept her into her lap and shushed her, and a heavy silence filled the formal room. Julia didn't think it was possible for ten five-year-olds to be so silent at a birthday party, but it was happening. Everyone just stared at the cake that lay burning at Caroline's feet, a pile of chocolate and frosting on her pristine floor.

"Happy birthday to you," Lance began singing. Julia looked at him as if he was crazy, but he motioned for her to sing along. "Happy birthday to you!" they sang together. Soon, very one but Caroline and Ro-Ro had joined in—Georgia B. providing the alto.

Later, when the crowd cleared and exhausted children were carried away in their parents' arms, Steve and Nina began disposing of the wrapping paper and ribbons. Madelyn went upstairs to put baby Nick down for a nap, and Caroline was on her knees, scrubbing away what was left of Hello Kitty.

Julia dropped beside her and whispered, "It's almost over."

Her sister's hands never stopped scrubbing as she said, "I can't believe my daughter had to blow out the floor."

"Caroline, I'm going to have to go home with Lance. . . . What am I going to do?"

"What are you going to do?" Caroline blew hair out of her face with a puff. "You have got to be kidding me. You have a kind and handsome houseguest. I"—Caroline paused for effect—"have Ro-Ro. Julia, you are on your own."

Chapter Eleven  

WAY #7: Make your home your castle.

People sometimes fall into the trap of ignoring their own dirty dishes. But it's important for a person living alone to maintain a beautiful living space. After all, fresh flowers and a clean house might be all that's waiting for you at the end of the day. Give yourself something beautiful to come home to.

—from 107 Ways to Cheat at Solitaire

Julia imagined saying, "Sorry, you have to go to a hotel.' But it was too late; Lance already had the bags out of the ; trunk and sitting on her front porch. He stood behind her, waiting for her to unlock the door.

Cool, damp air blew in from the creek, carrying the aroma of dogwoods in bloom, but the porch light didn't reach the! creek bank, so the delicate white flowers stayed eclipsed by the] night. She wished Lance could see the way the house settled in the low, rolling hills. Visitors always commented on the serenity of the land—the ultimate first impression.

Not this time.

"Love what you've done with the place," he said once they'd stepped inside.

Sarcasm? Julia wondered, looking around at the chipped paint and sagging floors of the foyer and the living room, studying Lance with fresh eyes. I can respect sarcasm, she decided.

The floors creaked as Lance and Julia walked through her home—her one romantic notion. Built by a district court judge in the days of Indian Territory, the white two-story house deserved better than rot and decay. She'd remodeled the kitchen and master bath in order to make the house livable. Those rooms alone had taken a full year of worrying over every pull, knob, and tile. Nina had quit the project, saying no self-respecting interior decorator would work with someone like Julia, best friend or not. In the back of her mind, Julia realized that Nina was right, and if she completed only one room every two years, she'd finish the house just in time for Cassie and Nick to inherit it from her. Still, she didn't have the fortitude to tackle any more, and she'd grown accustomed to the sparse surroundings.

Standing there with Lance Collins, however, made Julia regret not making more of an effort. As she looked at his nearly perfect face, she couldn't help but imagine that he lived in a nearly perfect home. She saw the layers of dust that hadn't bothered her before, and she wished she'd at least cleaned the floor before going on tour.

"I'm sorry it's not..." she began, but Lance held out a hand to stop her.

"It's fine. Really, it's got a lot of . . ." "Charm?" she guessed. "Potential."

"You may not be a bad actor after all," she answered his lie.

"That's what I keep trying to tell everyone!" he exclaimed, and Julia welcomed the moment of levity. "What's that beeping noise?" he asked, and Julia bolted to the kitchen where she punched a code into an alarm box on the wall by the back door. When she turned, she saw him leaning against the island.

"Do you really need that out here?" he asked.

Julia could see his point. Aside from the hum of the refrigerator, there wasn't a solitary sound. She remembered the honking and sirens that filled even the most peaceful New York night. Her old house must seem like the middle of nowhere to him, the kind of place where people were fighting to get out, not trying to break in. She shrugged and said, "Too much silence can be scarier than too much noise."

To her relief, he nodded and said, "Yeah, I know what you mean."

His quiet smile threw her suddenly off guard. She nervously threw open the refrigerator door. "Can I get you something to drink?" she asked, lapsing into hostess mode. "Maybe a pop, some cheese? I have some excellent cheese."

"No," he said quietly, stepping closer, forcing Julia toward the open refrigerator. The cold blasted her from behind. "Bed."

"Excuse me?"

"I think I need to go to bed. For tonight, Julia, I'm going to have to pass on the cheese."

"So does he still respect you this morning?" Nina said instead of hello.

Julia hung up on her.

While waiting for Nina to call back, she realized she hadn't even seen Lance yet. She'd overslept. . . again. Cursing insomnia .. . again. By the time she'd undergone a little obligatory primping, it was after ten, and he was nowhere to be seen.

"Okay, okay. Point taken," Nina said as soon as Julia answered. "You're touchy. I can empathize. So, really, how's it going?"

"The truth is, I don't know. I haven't seen him." Then she saw the empty hook by the back door. "My keys are gone!" She jogged to the living room and looked out the window. "My car is gone!" she said, and began running through the house. "Where's my purse? Did he steal my purse?"

"Julia, calm down," Nina said through the phone. "Do you really think someone would fly halfway across the country to steal your purse? I have seen your purse, and frankly, you could use an upgrade."

"Nina," Julia started. Then, through the front windows, she saw her car crest the hill and proceed slowly down the long, winding driveway. She followed it, watching as it circled around to the back of the house and parked by the kitchen door. "I'm gonna have to call you back."

"Hey," Lance said a moment later when he walked through the back door carrying two brown paper bags. "Good morning. I borrowed your car. Hope you don't mind. You didn't have much in the fridge, and I wanted to ..."

His voice trailed off as Julia's gaze went to the black tips ol his fingers—newsprint. He took a slight step toward her and said, "How about breakfast? I got—"

She finished for him. "You got some newspapers."

He didn't reply.

"Show me," she said, holding out a hand.

He reached into one of the bags, but before handing anything over, he asked, "Do you want the good news or the bad news?"

"There's good news?" she asked, amazed.

He pulled out two tabloids and handed them to her. The headline on top read: WHERE ARE LANCE AND JULIA?

Lance pulled an apple from one of the bags, rubbed it on his sleeve, and took a bite. A small trickle of juice ran from the corner of his mouth as he spoke and gestured toward the paper with the forbidden fruit. "They don't have a clue where we are. Evidently, we've been spotted around the globe. That one says Barbados." A sly grin slid onto his lips as he licked juice from the corner of his mouth. "I think we've lost them."

The relief almost knocked Julia off her feet. A sudden whoosh of air swept into her lungs. Freedom, she wanted to sing as she ran barefoot through Easter lilies. She wanted to recreate entire numbers from Grease. She was an Old Navy commercial just looking for a place to happen.

As the apple core hit the bottom of the trash can, the thunk drew her out of her daydream. Lance's hand reached back into his bag, and Julia remembered that there was more to the story. "The bad news is . . . well . . . we're still news."

Chapter Twelve  

WAY # 21: Shop smart to meet your needs.

List-making and careful budgeting will help you keep everyday living expenses in check. But don't allow yourself to fall into the ruts of routine. Try one new product from your grocery store every month. Variety is the spice of life.

—from 701 Ways to Cheat at Solitaire

It never ceased to amaze Julia what strangers will do in a woman's kitchen. During the remodel, Julia had complained that they were making the room too large. I don't want to run a marathon every time I need something from the freezer, she remembered saying. But Nina had cocked her head and said, "Kitchens are the new living rooms," and insisted on the additional space. Now, with Lance continually under foot, Julia was starting to believe Nina was a genius.

Watching him, she knew he probably wouldn't dare rearrange her underwear drawer, but here he was, trying to wedge a gallon of milk into the Diet Coke shelf of the refrigerator door.

"That doesn't go there," she said, trying to remember if there had ever been an entire gallon of milk in her refrigerator. She was pretty sure there hadn't. "That's going to go bad, you know," she couldn't stop herself from saying. "I can't use a whole gallon of milk before it goes bad."

"Maybe you can't," Lance said, "but we can."

The "we" hit her hard. She scanned the kitchen island where he'd emptied the bags and saw white bread, guacamole, and full-calorie pop—all three signs of the apocalypse. Then came the straw that broke the camel's back: the plastic monstrosity in Lance's hands was whole milk.

"Whole milk!" Julia said, appalled. When Lance looked at her, she threw her hands to Heaven and said, "Skim!" Then she got out of the kitchen.

In the living room later in the day, things only got worse.

One television set plus two virtual strangers must be a recipe for disaster, Julia thought, realizing she should probably write down that pearl of wisdom—it would make a great chapter for a book someday. As Lance zoomed through seventy-five channels at Olympic-record pace, she thought she could now understand a little of what married women go through. His underwear hadn't appeared on the bathroom floor yet, but one could only assume it was just a matter of time.