“What if fiction is intended to look like fact?” Shasta asked. “Or the other way around. Fact intended, or let’s say hidden, to look like fiction?”

Clay’s hand flew into the air. “Pass me the bacon, Brodie?” He looked like an overeager schoolboy. “Anyone want more? I can easily whip some up. Eggs, too. I see we’re out of scrambles.”

“I’ll take some more coffee,” I said.

Clay smiled at me, his expression a mixture of gratitude and supplication, and then headed for the kitchen. His discomfort had something to do with Dalton’s paintings, I was sure. Perhaps he hadn’t finalized the showing at his new gallery, and every time one of his guests made a not-so-oblique reference to Dalton’s work, Clay sensed the opening was under threat.

But Dalton clearly held us all, probably even Clay and Isak, in disdain. He oozed self-importance. People like that were asking to be slapped back. Figuratively, of course.

I decided to steer the conversation in another direction. “Brodie, what brought you to Juniper Grove?”

“I missed the mountains, I guess. That’s part of it.”

“You’re from Colorado?”

“Idaho. Plus, the Post offered me an opportunity I didn’t have in Nebraska. The hierarchy was settled there. The people above me weren’t going anywhere. I was a reporter and I was going to stay a reporter. Thing is, even though the Post is a lot smaller than the Lincoln Daily News, I don’t think the News will be around five years from now. The Post is forward looking. The owner wants it to grow into a northern Colorado paper, and he wants to expand the online presence.”

“Sounds like a smart move,” I said. “Looking ahead to where you want to be years from now.”

He laughed. “Time will tell if it was smart, but whatever happens, I’m glad I moved.”

Clay appeared, poured my coffee, and began to work his way around the table again, asking with raised eyebrows if guests wanted a refill.

“No, thanks,” Charlotte said.

“So your old Nebraska paper doesn’t have an online version?” Isak asked. “I thought they all did.”

“They do, but they don’t take advantage of it,” Brodie replied. “They don’t fully monetize their online presence.”

“The Post does,” Clay said. “Mary tells me online subscriptions have gone up lately, and so has ad revenue.”

Brodie looked proud, as though he’d played a major hand in both upswings. “More than a hundred new subscriptions in the past six weeks alone—and at a time when many newspapers are losing subscribers.”

“That’s impressive,” Charlotte said. “Maybe you were smart to leave Nebraska.” She flashed another crooked smile.

“All of one hundred subscriptions, dear me,” Dalton echoed. “But then again, this is Juniper Grove.”

Brodie glared at him and shoved more croissant in his mouth.

“Oh, Dalton,” Shasta said, her words dripping with sympathy, “how tragic your life must be. That’s the only explanation.”

Missing Shasta’s irony, Charlotte shook her head. “You’re joking. He leads a privileged life.”

I had to admire Shasta’s continued jabs and ripostes, though I did wonder if she realized she might be putting Isak’s art gallery dream in danger.

Trying again to steer the conversation toward pleasant pastures, I turned to Mary. She was staring ahead, her unfocused gaze signaling a secret distress. “Mary, I love the idea of mercury glass vases for the table. And all the white and green—it’s so fresh and wintry.”

“Sorry? What did you say?”

“I love the whole layout of the table. It’s perfect for January.”

“Thanks, Rachel. Laura helped. She has an artist’s eye.”

“Well, I’m stealing it for our next party,” I said. “That all right with you, James?”

“Yup,” he said.

By that point I was so uncomfortable that I practically buried my face in my coffee cup and then took a long, drawn-out sip, eyes down.

Gilroy hadn’t said a word—save for Yup—since leaving the living room. His silence, his nonexistent body language, and the stony expression I’d just glimpsed on his face meant he had switched to detective mode. He hadn’t really heard me. He was, on the one hand, on alert, and on the other, he was in another world.

And in the Blackwells’ brunch world, something was very wrong, a realization that had been creeping up on me since Gilroy and I had arrived. He felt it too, I was sure. The various undercurrents of acrimony, all those enormous paintings on the Blackwells’ walls, Clay’s forced cheeriness, the talk of libel, Laura’s sudden anger, and, oh yeah, Mary’s papers in my coat pocket.

“Well, I hate to leave, but . . .” Charlotte’s chair scraped over the sunroom’s tile floor.

“You’re going?” Mary asked.

I saw a glance pass between Charlotte and Brodie.

“I’m doing some at-home work for the firm,” she answered. “Not much, but I want to have it ready for tomorrow. First work day of the new year.”

“They use you,” Clay said.

“They’re going to pay most of my way through law school,” Charlotte said. “If anything, I’m using them.”

Mary rose. “I think that’s good of them. I’ll get your coat.”

A second later Brodie stood and claimed that he too had work to do. He thanked Clay, said goodbye and happy New Year to the rest of us, and trailed after Mary in search of his coat.

“Time for me too,” Dalton said, setting his napkin on the table.

“Leaving already?” Clay asked.

“Yeah, think so. We’ll talk tomorrow. I want to make some changes to the gallery opening.”

“Changes?” Isak asked. “It’s late in the game, Dalton.”

Shasta leaned forward, peering around Gilroy. “Rachel, why don’t we help clear the table?”

Clay protested like a good host for all of two seconds before relenting. Mary was in a mood, and if we could help cheer her, good.

I popped the last nibble of croissant in my mouth and started clearing the table. Gilroy gathered our cutlery and set his plate on top of mine.

In the kitchen, Shasta set her stack of plates in the sink and whispered, “Did you catch something going on between Brodie and Charlotte?”

“Am I deaf and blind?” I asked rhetorically.

She let out a belly laugh. “Young love. Or young like, anyway.”