Chapter 9: The Brunch

I typed back before Bea could take the phone.

"I'll bring a gift."

Bea read it over my shoulder and grinned.

"What gift?"

"The truth," I said. "Out loud. Before they can sell it."

On Sunday at eleven, Bea parked her Volvo in Helena Strade's drive between a Rolls-Royce and a catering van.

"You sure?" she said.

"I've never been surer of anything."

"Then I'm wearing my good rings."

The brunch was on the back terrace above the rose garden.

There were forty people at round tables under white umbrellas.

Women in silk. Men in linen jackets. Champagne in every hand.

A string quartet played in the corner.

A banner of white roses over the bar spelled out, "Welcome Home, Vivica."

She stood under it in a white dress, my face turned to the sun, the square diamond flashing on her hand.

Helena saw me first.

She didn't look surprised.

She looked pleased.

"Miss Hartigan," she called across the terrace. "You came. Everyone, this is the actress."

Forty heads turned.

I heard someone whisper, "The copy," and someone else shush her.

Vivica floated toward me with both hands out.

"I'm so glad," she said. "Helena said you'd want to see where the baby will grow up."

The terrace went silent.

The quartet faltered and kept playing.

I didn't take her hands.

I walked past her to the nearest table, picked up a fork and tapped it against a champagne glass until the quartet stopped.

"Hi," I said. "I'm Juno Hartigan. Sorry to interrupt the brunch."

Nobody moved.

"I'm pregnant," I said. "It's Damon Strade's baby. I'm due in October."

A woman at the next table put her hand over her mouth.

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