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Everyone is a little bit haunted. There are ghosts within us all, truths we keep bouncing away like bubbles we are afraid to let settle inside because we're afraid they will burst and poison us with the reality we can't face or with which we can't live.

I was beginning to understand why the wealthiest people clung to their illusions here. Thatcher wasn't wrong. They used their money to escape from themselves. My mother and my halfbrother. Linden. had lost their wealth. They couldn't afford illusions. They could do nothing but look into the mirror and see themselves as they really were, including their pasts, their memories, their pains and defeats.

Maybe I could change that. Maybe, somehow, I could change it for them.

And in doing so, change it for myself.

"What are your plans for the evening?" Thatcher asked as we drove into The Breakers.

"I have no plans," I said.

"There's an exhibition I've been invited to attend... some artist who's supposedly doing wonderful things by hand-painting digital images. Would you like to go? It's being held at the gallery that exhibits a few of Linden's paintings."

"Oh?"

"They'll have some wine and cheese, but we can have a nice dinner afterward at a quieter restaurant than where we were last night, a place on the beach where the entertainment will just be the sea and the sky."

"I'd like that," I said.

"The exhibition begins at seven. Why don't I come by then. The gallery is only ten minutes or so away from the hotel."

"Okay," I said as we pulled up to the front and the valet hurried to open my door.

Thatcher reached for me. "Think about staying at the house, Seriously. Look at the gas I'll save."

"Oh?" "I'm just trying to do my best to conserve energy," he joked. "Right," I said, and stepped out.

As I walked into the hotel, I thought what I should really do between now and the time he returned was buy myself something nicer to wear, something a little more elegant. I'm not doing it to develop some romantic fling, here in Palm Beach, I told myself. I'm doing all this towork myself successfully into my mother's world.

It's like a disease here, my conscience cried, a disease that builds your immune system, only it makes you immune to the truth.

I'm not lying to myself; I thought. Am I?

As I hurried toward the boutique, I'm sure I looked like one of Daddy's patients arguing with herself in the corridor of the Willows. I tried on a black sleeveless, fitted dress with a crew neck and a kick pleat. Perfect. To go with it. I bought a pair of high-heeled, open-toe sandals, Then I pondered over some costume jewelry and decided in the end to look simple and classic. Once that was done. I went up to my room to wash my hair. I was feeling drab, and my eyes looked tired. I called room service and had them send up an ice-cold fresh cucumber. something I had often seen my adoptive mother do. I sliced it and put the thin slices over my eyes while I rested.

Was I being too vain?

No matter what I was doing, there was no reason not to look my best. I thought.

How I hated all these contradictor, feelings. When would they end? Or do they ever end? Thatcher seemed to be telling me he believed they were a part of life. and especially any relationship. Maybe I was learning more here about myself than I had ever intended.

I was just putting the finishing touches on my hair and makeup when he knocked at my room door,

"Hi," he said, and whistled. "You look great!" "Thank you."

He was wearing a black silk shirt open at the collar under an aqua-blue blazer. Beneath his cuffed black slacks, I saw he wasn't wearing socks with his soft leather loafers. He looked dapper, relaxed, and elegant all at once.

He gazed past me into my room.

"You don't look as if you've packed your things." he remarked with disappointment.

"I'm still undecided." I said "I'm not even sure I'm staying in Palm Beach much longer, anyway,"

"Oh? Well, let me see what I can do to help you decide to stay," he added with that cute little smirk on his lips. "Madam," he said, offering his arm.

I laughed and joined him. An elderly couple was already at the elevator, the man in a tuxedo and his wife so bedecked in jewelry I wondered how she could move. They glanced at us suspiciously, even a bit disapprovingly. I supposed because of our joviality, Thatcher hoisted his eyebrows and winked at me as we all stepped into the elevator.

"So," he said, "I'd like permission to call you by your real name tonight."