He sniffed. “It’s art. Fiction, not history. And thank you, Charlotte, for your observational skills.”

Laura guffawed.

“How does everyone like the fruit?” Clay asked brightly. “It’s hard to get good melons this time of year.”

“Very nice,” Gilroy said. “It wasn’t that long ago people couldn’t get fruit in winter. Or not such a variety, anyway.”

“Exactly, James,” Clay said.

“You had to drive to Fort Collins, didn’t you?” Mary asked.

The light from the windows behind her lit her long, golden red hair, and though she was talking to Clay, her gaze was distant, parked somewhere between Shasta and Gilroy. With her strong jawline and full upper lip, she reminded me of a pre-Raphaelite model: willowy, pale, pensive.

“I did,” Clay said. “The new King Soopers.”

“Well, it’s very good,” I said. “The whole brunch is lovely.”

I asked Laura to pass me the chocolate croissants, thereby successfully squelching further discussion of Dalton’s idiotic portrayal of me as murderer. Honestly, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of my interest. If he wanted to paint me as a killer, fine. I’d known the man for five minutes and already I didn’t like him.

“So Mary tells me you’re Rachel Stowe-Gilroy now,” Laura said, handing me the plate. “Are they going to change the name on your books?”

Dalton cleared his throat. “Here’s something I’ve always wondered.” He folded his arms over his bloated abdomen and paused a beat until he had the room’s attention. “Say two hyphenated people marry and have children. What do they name their children? If they have a son named John, for instance, would it be John Stowe-Gilroy Jones-Smith? Such a poor, overburdened name.”

By nature Gilroy was a patient and thoughtful man, but he detested deliberate unkindness, especially when it was wrapped in the sort of I’m-so-clever humor meant to shield the speaker from criticism.

“What if Stowe-Gilroy-Jones-Smith married Johnson-Washington-Jones-Smith?” Gilroy replied.

“I don’t follow,” Dalton said.

Gilroy explained. “Would the couple drop the Jones-Smith? It’s redundant, isn’t it? But then you still have a mouthful to contend with. Stowe-Gilroy-Johnson-Washington. And legally, the children might need to retain the Jones-Smith. So would it be John Stowe-Gilroy-Johnson-Washington-Jones-Smith or John Stowe-Gilroy-Jones-Smith-Johnson-Washington-Jones-Smith?”

Lost in Gilroy’s name salad, Dalton was speechless.

Don’t mess with my husband. You’ll lose every time.

“Well, Dalton,” Laura said, “something to mull over during those long nights alone in front of the canvas. Speaking of canvases, I need to take a second look.” She wiped her mouth on her napkin, rose, and headed out of the sunroom.

“My goodness,” Shasta said, beaming from ear to ear. “You could go crazy with the possibilities. Personally, I was thrilled to ditch my name when I married Isak. My maiden name was Cowhorn.” She rolled her eyes and gulped her mimosa.

Isak laughed. “Glad I could be of assistance.”

I was about to dig into my second chocolatey croissant—I was sure they’d come from my friend Holly’s bakery—when Laura’s voice sounded from outside the sunroom.

“What the . . . ? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Clay and Mary glanced at each other.

“Laura?” Clay said. He stood.

“Unbelievable!” Laura shouted.

Mary tossed her napkin to the table and strode out of the sunroom.

Shasta, Gilroy, and I followed, and within moments all ten of us were in the living room near the front door.

“You think people—but then—and what for?” Laura sputtered, her eyes riveted to one of Dalton’s enormous paintings.

Mary laid a hand on Laura’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

“What is it?” Clay asked, his eyes shooting from Laura to the painting.

As if speaking to the painting itself, Laura said, “People don’t realize there’s such a thing as payback, even from foolish old me.”

“For what?” Brodie asked.

Laura straightened and took a long, deep breath. “Suddenly I can’t stand the company.”

CHAPTER 2

Mary, Shasta, and I watched from the window as Laura sped off in her Honda. Knowing Mary, I suspected she’d planned her brunch weeks ago, and the explosive exit of an outraged guest hadn’t been part of her plan. I felt sorry for her.

“Why’d she leave?” Brodie asked. “The painting’s not that bad.”

I turned back to the painting and the other guests, all of them still horseshoed around it, studying it, running their eyes over every inch of the canvas.

“Brodie,” Clay said, wearily rubbing his jaw.

“I’m joking,” Brodie said.

“Don’t,” Clay said.

For a moment I thought I glimpsed amusement in Dalton’s expression.

“Laura’s seen this painting before,” Isak said.

“Has she?” I asked, joining them.

“Two months ago for the first time. Then again at Mary and Clay’s Christmas party on the twenty-first.” He turned to me. “It’s going in the new gallery, and we hired Laura to do the brochures for the opening. She knows the works we’ll have on display.”

In answer to my questioning look he added, “Clay and I are opening an art gallery in Fort Collins. It’s something we’ve wanted to do for a long time.”

Clay smiled, his mood lifting. “Less than two months from today.”

“So this painting’s going to be there?” Charlotte asked.

“Yeah, among other paintings,” Isak said. “This one, and some other Colorado artists’ works. But we’ll feature twelve of Dalton’s oil paintings.”