"Corinne, I specifically told you seven sharp -- you knew how important today is, and it's twenty-to-eight!" Devin Bradshaw hissed at her manicurist. A ferocious tension headache was making the left side of Devin's head feel like someone was using a hammer to pound a spike through her skull.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Bradshaw, but traffic was dreadful in this rain," the woman said, toting her heavy case up the broad, curving staircase to the master bedroom suite.
A fierce December storm was dumping water in sheets onto streets and freeways, turning the morning commute into snarling gridlock punctuated by scores of accidents, ranging from fender-benders to multi-vehicle pile-ups. Southern Californians do not know how to drive in the rain.

It was the unexpected downpour that gave Devin the headache, she figured -- lately they'd been more frequent and more intense. She'd awakened in the dark at five this morning to the low-volume beep of her digital alarm, the one they'd finally settled on after several trial clocks because it roused her without waking Paul. She had set it for an hour earlier than usual so she could get in her workout before the day's wall-to-wall activities began. The dismaying sound of rain pounding on the glass skylights overhead had propelled her onto her feet. Not a word about this deluge on the news last night, she'd groused to herself as she quietly moved across the floor to her dressing room, careful not to disturb her very powerful, very handsome, enormously self-absorbed, sixty-year-old, rhythmically snoring husband.

She was giving a dinner party in his honor tonight for more than two hundred luminaries here at the eighteen-room mansion they called home. It was to celebrate Paul Bradshaw's receipt of a major government award that was featured prominently in the national news this week, and the party would double as a presidential fundraiser. An homage to her husband, some hefty checks to replenish the Democratic campaign chest, and a huge dose of hard work for the mistress of the manse, the beautiful, thirty-four-year-old socialite Devin Yorke Bradshaw. That's the way she was usually referred to in the press, Devin pondered, wrinkling up her nose. And now it was raining!

Even though it was December, this was Southern California, after all, and the weather had been typically mild, so she'd planned to have champagne and hors d'oeuvres served outside in the gardens. The trees had been strung with thousands of tiny Italian lights woven into their branches. Higham and Johns was to deliver and install two dozen discreet outdoor heaters that would emit warm, floral-scented air. Several festive bars and food stations were to be set up in the gardens this afternoon, and a string quartet in black tie was scheduled to play show tunes by the pool.

Now what? she thought, as she shot a glance through the French doors to the terrace outside her bedroom. Delicate fichus trees in earthenware pots were being tossed about, bent and broken in the angry wind and rain.

The two women had moved into the sitting room of the master suite, where the manicurist was nervously setting out her tools and solvents and powders and polishes on the marble vanity top. Devin knew she shouldn't blame Corinne for running late in this storm. Still, she couldn't make herself ease up on the woman. She should have left home earlier when she saw that it was pouring, when she knew that traffic would be impossible. Had Devin been in her place, that's what she would have done. Now Corinne had put her nearly an hour behind schedule.

Her skin specialist from the prestigious Vera Brown Salon was due at eight o'clock for waxing, a facial and a massage. Since party prepping would have to wait until her nails were completely dry, Devin had intended to get some personal needs out of the way in the meantime. Her makeup and hair people would get there in late afternoon, and Tina Blackwell, the couture manager at Neiman's, was bringing her dress over at two o'clock -- pray God it would be right. Tina had promised that the alterations would be finished two days ago, but no! Devin was constantly amazed at how people just didn't seem to care. Sometimes she felt like the only good little girl left on earth. And that was lonely.

As Devin sat with her hands outstretched to Corinne's ministerings, her eyes wandered to the graceful, peach and ivory silk-striped chaise longue, and next to it the black glass and brass inlaid table from Didier Aaron in Paris, on which lay a copy of this week's Time magazine. Her husband's steel blue-gray eyes gazed back at her from the red-bordered cover. On Monday, he had been presented with the distinguished Malcolm Baldridge Award for Humanitarianism in Business by the United States Department of Commerce. The President himself, the outgoing Republican to whose campaigns Paul Bradshaw had also been a notable contributor, had been driven over to Commerce from the White House to personally place the medal around her husband's neck.

Paul Bradshaw was the founder and owner of L.A. GARB, one of the largest manufacturers of sports clothes and accessories in the country. After the city's disastrous riots in the aftermath of the Rodney King beating verdicts last April, Bradshaw had presented a plan to Peter Ueberroth, head of "Rebuild L.A.", to train, employ and educate a thousand residents of South-Central Los Angeles. His company subsequently rebuilt and refurbished a hundred forty-seven thousand square feet of contiguous space on Florence Avenue in the heart of the riot-torn area. There, he'd created a huge factory operation where designers, pattern-makers, cutters, office staff, and other employees from his Santa Monica plant started a new L.A. GARB division called PULLED TOGETHER, and trained local workers to run it.

Stories in the L.A. Times, the Wall Street Journal, on local television news, in Time, Newsweek, People, Forbes, Fortune and elsewhere, told how Paul Bradshaw had pulled together his own competent troops to help displaced workers in South-Central Los Angeles pull themselves and their community together through a new and already thriving business.

PULLED TOGETHER put out several lines of casual work clothes, sportswear, sweats and running shoes, and the label had taken off from the minute it came to market. Each garment bore a hang-tag stating that 5% of the retail cost of that item would go directly to a special fund to provide social programs and educate students in South-Central Los Angeles. American consumers, appalled by the rioting, looting and devastation they saw on television and fearing for their own inner cities, responded to the nationwide publicity attending the launch of the new PT clothing lines. They got a good feeling when they purchased an item with the PULLED TOGETHER label on it, a feeling that they were doing something to help. And the President of the United States gave Paul Bradshaw a medal

The Secretary of Commerce and his wife, Robert and Georgette Mosbacher, albeit Republicans, would be in attendance at Devin's party for Paul this evening. They were friends. And the Democratic President-elect was in town -- Paul Bradshaw had also contributed hefty amounts to his campaign. Bill Clinton was speaking at a dinner at the Century Plaza Hotel tonight to honor the new women senators from California, but a contact from the Arkansas Governor's office had assured Devin that he and Hillary would make every effort to stop by for cocktails in the Bradshaw gardens between seven and eight. Perfect, Devin thought. Hope they wear slickers and rubber boots!

Whether or not the Clintons showed, the attendant circus was mandatory. Devin was told that by virtue of their mere tentative acceptance, several Secret Service agents with dogs, and a swat team, would be coming to the house this afternoon to inspect the premises and sweep it down from top to bottom. They never disclosed times of arrival in advance, she was warned, but they would be here. Telephone technicians would also be coming by to install two phone lines in the tennis pavilion, and two phone lines in a room that was to be specifically designated for the sole use of the President-elect. A pair of agents would be left in place, and no one would be allowed inside that room from the time the phone installers were finished until the Clintons had departed the property.

If, in fact, the First Couple-elect did put in an appearance at the Bradshaw home tonight, Devin was instructed, two men and two women Secret Service agents would be with them at all times. Eight or ten other agents, with dogs, would be stationed on the grounds, along with the swat team that earlier cased the place. Also, there would be officers from the California Highway Patrol, the L.A.P.D., the Beverly Hills Police Department and the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department stationed along the periphery of the property. A pair of F.B.I. agents could possibly be in the mix as well. And, she should know, there would be helicopters from various agencies flying overhead.

Since it would be the dinner hour, Devin was further informed, the Bradshaws would be expected to provide meals for all of them, whether or not they wanted food. And she should be prepared to feed about twenty or thirty press as well, and she was advised that members of the press corps never turned down food. Devin, with the Clinton people, worked out a plan whereby this whole gang would be offered buffet service in the tennis pavilion. The two land lines to be installed out there were to accommodate the press. The Secret Service, of course, used cell phones, she was told. It had occurred to Devin to ask who would be responsible for the phone bills that a couple of dozen news correspondents would be running up calling Washington, Little Rock, and God knows where, but she let it go. Heaven forbid they should get uppity on her and say never mind, they're not coming. Paul would never forgive her.

Devin was also asked to fax to Washington a complete list of the names, dates of birth, addresses and phone numbers of everyone who would be at the house tonight, including residents, staff and guests. Also, she was to inform each person that such a list was being submitted to Presidential Transition Team headquarters. She got all the information to them except the birth dates of her guests. Clinton aides would have to run down those statistics on their own, Devin decided. If she had insisted that each of her guests supply her with the real dates that were on their birth certificates and passports, she knew that only about half the men, and none of the women, would come at all.

As Corinne worked the acrylic paste on one hand to form long, perfectly shaped simulated fingernails over her own, Devin used her other hand to buzz downstairs. She asked Gussie to bring up fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, coffee, and one slice of dry whole-wheat toast with a little sugarless jelly on the side. Then she spread her computer printout of the day's schedule in front of her and studied it, to make sure that nothing had been overlooked.

Cocktails at seven; dinner at eight-thirty. The caterers would arrive at four, the bartenders at five-thirty. The twenty-two tables for ten had been set up yesterday, and spread with forest-green linen. It was three weeks before Christmas -- she would acknowledge the spirit of the season with green, without suggesting that this was a Christmas party. It wasn't. It was to curry political favor, and to honor her husband for having received the Commerce Medal. And it had been her husband's idea.

Maria and Laguya would set the tables this morning with china, crystal, silver and candles. The florists were due in the early afternoon to arrange flowers for the tables and throughout the entire house. Mark Janssen, the florist whom Beverly Hills society fought over this season, told her he had an idea for centerpieces that was absolutely dynamite, and unique, something her guests had most probably never seen before. And the musicians would be here at six o'clock to get themselves situated and tune up.

Devin had already worked out in her head how to handle the rained-out garden reception. It would have to be moved indoors to the entryway, and spill over into the library. Thank God the marble entry rotunda was immense. Most of her living room and dining room furniture had been moved out of the house into temporary storage for tonight's gala dinner, replaced by eighteen of the large, round dining tables now set up in those two massive rooms. The other four tables had been placed in the library, but now they would have to be moved out of there to make room for the cocktail service.

The library! One of her favorite rooms in the house now, but only after an enormous outlay of time and money. What a travesty it had been. Before they'd even started building she hired Bailey Senn, one of the premiere interior decorators in the country, to do the entire house. And she'd carefully gone over every square inch of the mansion in blueprints with him for endless hours and days, weeks and months, to be sure that each last detail would be exactly right. And still, the library had turned out to be a disaster. Not once, but twice. Twice, Devin had to have the entire room torn out. After the second time, and after she'd gotten a handle on her rage, she took Bailey firmly in hand and told him she was going to personally show him the meaning of "detail!"

That week she'd chartered a Falcon 900 from Beverly Hills Jet for a round trip, Los Angeles to Paris. Without saying where they were going, she told Bailey to pack a bag for a few days, and she picked him up in a limousine and took him to Garrett Aviation, the private-jet concourse at LAX.

Fourteen hours later a car and driver met them at Le Bourget Field just outside Paris, and ferried them into the city to the Plaza Athenee on the Rue Montaigne, where Devin had booked two deluxe suites. As the bellman prepared to show them to their rooms, she instructed Bailey to get some sleep, freshen up, then meet her in the dining room at one o'clock sharp for lunch.

Devin had pre-ordered. They started with a small salade, served with a wine the French call a big white -- a crisp, dry, vintage Corton Charlemagne. And still, Devin wouldn't tell Bailey what they were doing there. Next, with great flourish, their waiter brought the Plaza Athenee's world-famous lobster souffle for two. After lunch, Devin had arranged for a very special bottle of Chateau d'Yquem, to be served with assorted fresh fruits and madeleines. Then, after signing the check, Devin steered Bailey out of the dining room and through the magnificent lobby to the front entrance, where their driver was waiting.

The chauffeur whisked them outside the city to the magnificent Palace of Versailles. That afternoon, and over the next two days, Devin pointed out sections of floors and ceilings, opulent window treatments, fixtures, fireplaces and furniture -- bits and pieces and areas of the splendid decor at Versailles -- thereby showing the celebrated decorator Bailey Senn the meaning of DETAIL!

She then gave Bailey the mandate, while keeping the meaning of detail uppermost in his mind, to go ahead and do in her library what Marie Antoinette would have done if she'd had taste.

And now the library was right. The inset book shelves were right; the stained-glass windows were right. The draperies that were hung at the twenty-four-foot ceiling level and dusted the floors were right. The cherrywood flooring inlaid with decorative old brass pieces was right; the silk Aubusson rugs were right. The welting on the club chairs was now right. Even the books were right, most of them bound in rich leather and embossed with gold-leaf lettering. The library was now exactly right, but it had taken the better part of a year and close to half a million dollars to make it so.

She would have those four dining tables moved out of the library to create space for the cocktail hour. They'd have to be crowded into the living room. There was nowhere else. She'd thought about having them set up in the massive media game room downstairs, but the forty guests who would be seated down there might feel they'd been slighted, relegated to the bottom of the pecking order. She'd considered doing the cocktails down there, but it would be awkward ushering everyone downstairs immediately upon arrival. Not right. So she'd just have to jam the tables together. There was no other way. Damn this rain!

She began looking over her seating charts. They would have to be revised, but perhaps not drastically, she hoped. Still, there were some people who simply could not be put in proximity with other people, not even in the same room. She'd have to carefully review the entire seating plan now.

At least she hadn't put the place cards out yet -- her schedule indicated that she would do that in late morning after the tables were set. And of course she would have to do that chore herself. She always did, to avoid mistakes. Even then, it could get botched. At her last dinner one of their guests, the blowzy third wife of a business associate of Paul's, had brazenly taken it upon herself to move several place cards around in order to secure more prestigious seating for herself and her husband. This time Devin intended to put a little dab of Super Glue under each place marker, in order to fix it to the tablecloth. Not that Mrs. No-Class would be here, or would ever be on her guest list again. But one never knew -- tonight's crowd would be quite large, and therefore not completely manageable, so having the place cards literally glued to the linen would give her one less thing to worry about.

And in case Devin had to change any seating at the last minute, she could do that -- the place indicators were ivory-colored molded ceramic pieces on which the names of the guests had been drawn with multi-colored art markers, and could be wiped clean if necessary and new names applied. She'd hired a Chinese calligrapher to paint the names, and embellish them with flowers. He would stop by at six to make any last-minute changes.

Corinne was finished, and Lorna was ready and waiting to do her waxing and facial. She would have to skip the massage, now. Too bad -- it might have helped ease her headache. Devin had hoped she could relax during this hour, but now she'd have to hurry the session along.

"You've got exactly forty-five minutes to get all of it done," she informed the facialist, more harshly than she'd intended, but her head was throbbing, and her mood was as black as the thundering skies.

Lorna looked distressed, but said nothing. She started applying hot wax to her client's legs with deliberately rapid strokes. Meantime, Devin picked up the phone and quick-dialed the private line in Paul's office. His assistant Alexandra chirped, "Good morning, Mr. Bradshaw's office."

"Alex, it's Devin," she said, skipping the preliminaries. "Please have a couple of workers sent over to the house right away, would you? Tell Paul I need them to break down and move all the tables out of the library, and then rearrange the rest of them."

"Certainly, Mrs. Bradshaw," Alexandra returned, with the coolness that marked all of her dealings with Paul Bradshaw's wife. Maybe Alexandra's frigid manner with her was the reason why Devin never made an effort to be pleasant back.

God, she was tired. She and Paul had come back from Washington on Tuesday, and she'd been working non-stop on this dinner from the minute they'd stepped over the threshold. She'd managed to get only about four hours sleep a night for the last week. Three of Paul's children were coming tonight. And his brother Sam with his wife Lizbeth. All of the Bradshaws hated Devin. They treated her as if she were one of Paul's low-tiered hired help. But on the few occasions when she'd attempted to discuss that with her husband he'd dismissed her, said she was imagining things.

Devin had met Paul Bradshaw at a dinner party four years ago, when he was still married to Rosemary. In a telephone chat a few days before, their hostess and mutual friend, Muriel Greene, had told Devin she had a feeling that the handsome, dashing, mega-rich Paul Bradshaw was ready to move out of an old, stale marriage and into a new relationship.

"I'm seating you next to him," she'd said. "Just check him out."

These older, wealthy businessmen didn't usually break with their long-time first wives until they spotted the prize they wanted next, Muriel had observed. They didn't like to "date around"; that didn't suit their social styles. But if indeed he was ready to succumb to the old "thirty-year itch", she told Devin, Paul Bradshaw would be one hell of a catch. Muriel had speculated with a knowing chuckle that it couldn't hurt to present her good friend, the beautiful, talented, icy blonde Devin Yorke, for his appraisal. High-powered hostesses routinely spotted their dinner parties with these kinds of situations -- it was part of the sport. At cocktails, Muriel had made it a point to introduce Devin to Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, and of course Devin had made it a point to more or less ignore the handsome Mr. B. and turn most of her attention to Rosemary. They had a mutual interest, it turned out -- they were both auxiliary members of the L.A. County Arts Council.

Paul was tall, trim and tanned, fifty-six then, with piercing eyes, a smile like lightning, a strong cleft chin, and lavish, wavy white hair. His wife Rosemary was also fifty-six, a short, plump, greying, pleasant matron who seemed friendly and eager to please. In her navy blue crepe suit and white shoes, she was a woman whose sense of style had gone into arrested development long before Paul Bradshaw had made serious money, when most of her attention had been diverted to the job of bearing and raising their four children. Rosemary Bradshaw had learned early to ignore her handsome husband's roving eye, and roving cock, and as the years went by it seemed the more money he made, the easier that got. After all, he always came home.

Devin Yorke was thirty then, five foot eight, pencil thin and classically beautiful, with sleek, luxuriant blond hair that was cropped short at the back of her neck and angled longer in front to just beneath her chin. After graduating from Parson's School of Design and working as a junior designer at three different fashion houses in L.A.'s sprawling garment district, she'd taken off with her own label, a young, stylish, affordable line of mix-and-match womenswear called PIECES. The garments were designed to be layered on or off, to take a woman through her work day, then out to dinner or to an elegant party. Devin didn't own her company, she had financial backers, but she took home a healthy salary, and she was acknowledged as a fast-rising star in the fashion industry. Devin didn't date a lot of men, and she certainly didn't sleep with any. She had no time for serious relationships, the threat of AIDS ruled out casual sex, and besides, she'd found that too few of the 90's crop of L.A. studs were worth the effort.

Paul Bradshaw had his fill of the young, delicious models who posed for the ultra-sexy black-and-white ads that had been his creative invention and had captivated the advertising world as well as the buying public. Those women were a dime a dozen, or more precisely, their modeling fees were upwards of five hundred dollars an hour, which price was relative for a man of Paul Bradshaw's means. Off the job they were free, of course, to have lunch with the boss, and maybe "lunch" with him after lunch as well. Paul Bradshaw was one of the most interesting and attractive men in town, certainly, and these "lunches" didn't hurt their potential to be cast for L.A. GARB commercials and print ads. But for Paul Bradshaw, these "lunches" were like Chinese food -- an hour later he was hungry again.

That night, seated beside Devin Yorke at dinner, he'd sensed in her a whole other menu item -- this goddess in the floor-length, white silk, sleeveless tunic, her only jewelry the diamond studs in her ears and a sinewy golden snake bracelet wound around the slender upper part of her right arm, which from time to time brushed against his -- this vision who was not only beautiful, charming and poised, and a clever businesswoman besides, but who was actually saying intelligent things to him, was looking very much to Paul Bradshaw like a full-course meal.

He invited her to come to lunch one day soon and tour his huge L.A. GARB operation out in Santa Monica. She did, the following week. And now, four years later, Devin and Paul Bradshaw were married and living in their new, twenty-eight-thousand-square-foot, multi-level, Mediterranean-style mansion in Bel Air with seven in help, and Rosemary Bradshaw was alone in the ramshackle old Tudor house she'd shared with Paul and their children for nearly three decades.

Neither Paul nor Devin had intended it to happen that way. Or maybe they did. This was the way of the 90's. Devin Yorke was a gleaming trophy, and Paul Bradshaw had earned her. And Devin deserved him, and the lifestyle that came with him. She'd managed her life with discipline and focus, applying her considerable energy to her education and goals, taking care of her health, her body and her lustrous good looks, conscientiously tending to her business and her relationships, and resolutely fashioning herself from less-than-modest beginnings into an undeniably spectacular woman.

Paul was wealthy and generous and crazy about Devin, in the beginning, and he was able and willing to take fabulous care of her. And she, in the beginning, was wild about him. Also, she had to admit, she loved being gifted with furs and jewels, being pampered with the best in services and personal care, and flying to exotic vacation spots on the company jet. Paul would beam when he had Devin on his arm; he would show her off with palpable pride. She made him look young and virile. She also made him feel young and virile, in the beginning -- he'd become a tiger in the marital bed again.
After they'd taken on the outsized task of planning and building the elaborate Benedict Canyon villa, Devin had reached a point where she no longer had time for her career, so she resigned as president of PIECES. Her marriage was her job now, and it was a choice she'd gladly made. And she'd had to work harder at this than she ever had before. That was fine -- Devin never shrank from hard work. The problem was that this particular work had begun to feel increasingly meaningless.


Today the house was bedlam. By afternoon the storm had worsened, and Devin noticed with annoyance that the army of workers trekking through were dripping water and leaving muddy footprints everywhere. She would have to get Maria and Laguya to go over the floors thoroughly after the heavy foot traffic cleared out. The tables had been rearranged, and beautifully set. Yes, they looked a little crowded to her, but it couldn't be helped, and everyone else thought the setting was glorious. She was the first to admit that she was hyper-critical -- of everything, and especially of herself.

The seating had been an ongoing saga. Her phones hadn't stopped all day, secretaries calling to check directions or dress requirements, then dropping unsubtle hints that their boss had mentioned that he and his wife would love to be seated with so-and-so. One high-powered CEO had actually called in person and confided to Devin that he and his wife were separating, and he asked if it would be all right if he came alone. Fifteen minutes later the man's wife called and asked Devin the same thing. Other guests were maddeningly unresponsive. Regina Montand had not called with the name of her escort -- with Regina you never knew. Devin had left blank the place marker to Regina's left, with just the flowers colored in. Hopefully she would catch the name of La Montand's stud-du-jour at the door, and have Sun Tang fill it in during cocktails.

Mark Janssen had indeed outdone himself with the flowers. The house was ablaze with gorgeous floral arrangements, and the centerpieces were indeed going to be outstanding. He'd had three large tanks of exotic tropical fish delivered -- vivid, red Flame Gourami with metallic blue fins; Siamese fighting fish in a variety of vibrant reds, purples, blues, greens and pinks; Haplochromas, or "Electric Blues", that looked like blue gas-jet flames darting about in the water. Mark had explained to her that the blues were all female, because if you put two males of this species together they would kill each other. And there were red Discus with turquoise faces, and Boesmani Rainbows with streaks of yellows, blues and greens, looking like saucy Spanish dancers in multi-colored ruffled skirts. Mark was going to drop three of these beauties, color-coordinated and compatible, into the flared bottoms of thirty-inch high, gallon-sized crystal vases, with floral arrangements of white cymbidium orchids, forsythia, and blazing red-flowering tropical haliconia high at the tops to allow the diners to see each other across the tables. Brilliant!

The exotic fish were quite valuable. Mark had payed the Tropical Emporium on La Cienega Boulevard a rental fee to have them "perform" at the Bradshaw dinner. Tomorrow morning he would come over at nine o'clock to transfer them back to their tanks, and return them to the tropical fish store.

Thank God her dress was right. Well, nearly right. It was absolutely elegant, a Christian Lacroix with black, puffed sleeves and a tight-fitting bodice of white satin encrusted with seed-pearls over a huge skirt done in wide, horizontal strips of satin in alternating black and white. She had ordered the skirt to hit precisely at the instep. Unfortunately, it was about an inch longer than it should have been, and broke over the tops of her white satin pumps, but she'd have to live with that. If Tina had had the damn thing ready by Tuesday as she was supposed to, the hem could have been taken care of, but it was too late now. She'd have it shortened after the party. There'd be no hurry then because it was a signature dress, so notable that she couldn't be seen in it again for at least a year.

Devin was taking a final walk-through, to see that everything was in place and proceeding properly before she retired to shower, be made up and have her hair styled. It was a little after three. Still early, but she liked to be dressed and ready at least an hour in advance of arrivals to deal with any last-minute glitches, and there were always those. And that's when she'd have to field questions from the world -- caterers, valet-parking attendants, bartenders, musicians, and last-minute calls from guests wanting God knows what, and expecting to speak to the hostess, of course, as if she had nothing better to do.

That's when she saw the tablecloths. Four of them, in the living room. Presumably on the four tables that had been in the library. The workers from Paul's office had evidently dumped the linen in a heap when they'd broken down those tables to move them, and now the green cloths had been replaced on the tables, each a wrinkled mess. Or so they looked to Devin. That's what happened if she didn't stand over people, she fumed inwardly. She called for Maria and Laguya, who simultaneously appeared from different directions within seconds.

"Remove everything from these tables!" she addressed them both sharply, pointing out the four with the offending linen. "How in the world could you set these tables with the tablecloths so wrinkled?" she demanded of the two anxious women. "Please put everything -- napkins, china, silver, crystal, place markers -- over on one of the sideboards until I can press these damned tablecloths," she ordered.

"I'll iron the tablecloths, Mrs. Bradshaw," sweet Laguya immediately offered, but Devin insisted she would do it herself. She knew that she would be quicker and she would do it right, and time was running out. She didn't want to risk having something amiss again when she came back downstairs after dressing.

As fast as the two women could remove the table-top accoutrements, Devin scooped up the linens in her arms and hustled toward the stairway that led to the ironing room. Halfway down the stairs she heard laughing and noise coming from the laundry area, and she remembered that the florist had set up his workers down there. They were using the sinks and the long counters to create the flower arrangements and centerpieces, since the caterers had the kitchens and butler's pantry entirely tied up.

She spun around and started back up the stairs, intending to run up to the master suite and use the iron and wall-board in her room-sized closet. She wasn't watching her footing over the stack of heavy tablecloths, and she didn't see the puddle of water in the middle of one of the steps. Somehow she'd managed to safely skim over it on the way down, but when going back up onto that same tread, the ball of her right leather sandal skidded backward over the water and landed behind her on the step below, throwing her completely off balance and bringing her crashing down on the stairs with a reverberant howl, a cascade of wrinkled tablecloths landing in a heap on top of her.

Laguya, Maria, the florists, and her secretary Peggy all rushed to the stairwell. Devin, tears in her eyes, was sprawled on the stairs, clutching her wrist. The pain was excruciating. She knew it was broken.

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