“Isn’t Bill dating Marcy over at the library?” Max asked.

Heather shrugged. “Guess he’s keeping his options open.”

Max grinned at Casey. “I’m sure you made a good impression on all of them.” He ignored the pinch in his gut that might be jealousy. After all, he’d been the first to welcome her to town, and living across the hall from her, it was only natural he’d feel a little territorial.

“I don’t want to make an impression on any of them.” Casey shifted in her chair. “I’m sure they’re very nice guys, but I didn’t come to town on some kind of man hunt.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” Heather said. “After you’ve been here a while you’ll be just another local like me. Yesterday’s news.”

“Did she tell you a bunch of lifties serenaded her last night?” Max grinned.

“No!” Heather laughed. “I’ll bet that was a riot.”

“Sounded like a bunch of raccoons fighting over leftovers,” Max said.

Casey joined in the laughter. “It was pretty terrible,” she said. “Max ended up rescuing me and taking me home.”

“Any woman who drives halfway across the country by herself with only a houseplant for company doesn’t need rescuing,” he said. “I figured you were worn out from your trip and didn’t need the hassle of dealing with those guys anymore.”

He’d been standing by the bar, making fun of the singing when he’d locked eyes with her across the room. She’d looked exhausted and more than a little lost in the midst of the raucous crowd. What man wouldn’t have stepped in to help her?

“Well, I appreciate it, anyway,” Casey said. She rearranged her silverware, avoiding his eyes. Which was a real shame. She had beautiful eyes. The gray of a stormy sky.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letters that had come for her this morning. “These were in the mail for you,” he said.

She took the letters, frowning when she read the address on the first one—the one from Mr. and Mrs. Charles Jernigan. When she got to the one from Paul Rittinghouse she positively glowered. “You don’t look too thrilled with mail from home,” he said.

She glanced up at him, her cheeks flushed, then folded the envelopes in half and stuffed them into her pocket. “I’m surprised, that’s all. I mean, I just got here.”

“They must have been mailed before you left,” he said.

“You’re probably right.” Her expression brightened, but he had the impression the look was forced. “Heather has been telling me about the Flauschink Polka Ball,” she said.

“I was explaining to her she needs to come up with a costume,” Heather said.

“And I’ve been trying to explain to her I’m not really much for fancy parties,” she said. She’d attended enough overdone celebrations in Chicago to last a lifetime.

“I wouldn’t call the Polka Ball fancy,” Max said. “It’s mostly just fun.”

“Your costume will have to be something simple,” Heather said. “We’ve only got a week. And I don’t think anything in my closet will fit her.”

“What about that ball gown or whatever it is in your closet?” Max asked. The thing had taken up half her car, like one of those hoop-skirted costumes from Gone with the Wind or something.

“No.” She shook her head, her cheeks a deep pink. “That wouldn’t be appropriate at all.”

Heather gave Max a questioning look. He shrugged. Whatever was in that bag, Casey clearly didn’t want to talk about it and he wasn’t going to push it.

“Why do I have to have a costume?” Casey asked. “Couldn’t I stay home?”

“And miss one of the best parties of the year?” Max asked.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve heard the polka version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’” Heather said. “Besides, we’ll need you there to help sell tickets and things like that.”

“Maybe I’ll wear what I have on and go as a normal person,” Casey said. “I can wear a sign around my neck that says Endangered Species.”

Max laughed. “That’s pretty good. But the whole point is to shake you out of normal person mode. It’ll be good for you.” She obviously had a sense of humor, but there was a certain tension about her, as if she were always reining herself in.

“Do you have a red dress?” Heather asked.

“Not entirely red, no. Why?”

“Does it have some red in it?”

She nodded. “But why do you want to know?”

Heather turned to Max. “I’ve got red heels and red fishnet hose she can borrow. And my red feather boa. She can go as Miss Scarlet.”

“Miss Scarlet?”

“From the board game Clue. Ben Romney came last year as Colonel Mustard and we all said it was a shame we didn’t have a Miss Scarlet, too.”

“What are you coming to the party as?” Casey asked Max.

He grinned. “You’ll have to show up and find out.”

“Last year he was Mr. Disco, in orange bell-bottoms and a rainbow Afro.” Heather laughed. “Add a clown nose and big shoes and you could use the same outfit as a clown costume.”

“I promise you will be astounded and amazed by my costume this year,” Max said. He’d outdone himself, if he did say so.

“Your food’s getting cold,” Hagan called.

“We have to get back to work, anyway.” Heather stood and Casey rose also.

“See you later, neighbor,” Max said.

The smile she gave him made him warm clear-through, setting off warning bells in his brain. He did his best to ignore them. He and Casey would be friends, that’s all. He didn’t have any intention of taking things any further. Why ruin a good friendship with something as messy as romance?

THAT AFTERNOON, Casey waited until Heather was involved in a lengthy phone call before she slipped the letters out of her pocket. She opened the one from her parents first, already pretty sure of what it would say.

As she’d expected, the letter in turns scolded her for being so foolish and irresponsible, pleaded with her to come to her senses and return home and reminded her how disappointed they were that she had embarrassed them so in front of all their friends.

Of course, that was what was most important, wasn’t it? The impression she gave to all their friends. Never mind what she might be feeling. What she might want. Over the years she’d tried in various ways to tell her parents that she didn’t want the kind of public acclaim and popularity they craved, but she could never make them understand.

And worse, they’d almost succeeded in convincing her that she was wrong, that of course she was supposed to lead the kind of life they’d planned out for her—the good marriage to a prominent member of society, the memberships in the Junior League, the League of Women Voters, the Chicago Art Project, et cetera, the house in Madison Park or the Gold Coast and a vacation home on Martha’s Vineyard. Shopping at all the right stores, eating at all the right restaurants, knowing all the right people.

She’d almost believed them. Until the morning she woke up in a panic and realized that if she didn’t do something soon—something drastic—she’d be trapped forever in a life she’d never wanted.

She glanced over and saw that Heather was still on the phone. She dropped the letter from her parents, along with the envelope, into the shredder and watched with relief as the missive was reduced to paper ribbons.

But when she looked at the second letter, her relief vanished, replaced by sheer dread. Why had Paul written her? Obviously, her parents had given him her address here. Possibly they’d even encouraged him to try to talk some sense into her. Because, of course, anything she did that went against their wishes was senseless.

She stared at the envelope, at the neat, clipped handwriting. As upright and proper as the man himself.

Not that there was anything wrong with Paul, she reminded herself. He was a perfectly nice man. Good-looking. Rich. The perfect boyfriend.

Except he hadn’t been perfect for her and she couldn’t make anyone believe that. Not even, apparently, Paul.

She sat there, hand poised to tear open the envelope. But really, what could he say that she wanted to hear? He wasn’t going to make her think differently. He wasn’t going to make her go back.