Abigail’s mother was yammering at Molly. “I don’t even know where he is. The lawyer won’t tell me. I told his lawyer to call my lawyer, but he never listens. The whole thing is making me nuts.” Molly hoped she looked as interested as she ought to be. What Elsie Pelham was saying was important. Molly needed to know about the custody arrangements of her school’s pupils—and she needed to know the home environments her students were coming from. But two days after John had kissed her, she was still dazed and distracted, struggling to keep her focus on the present. Her memory of those few passionate moments in the foam pit kept dimming her mind like a dense winter fog. She’d been all but useless on Sunday, when she and Allison Winslow had driven down to Stamford to look at bridal gowns and dresses for the attendants. Allison had oohed and ahhed over sophisticated white-silk sheaths and fairy-tale confections of satin and lace, and like a dolt Molly had just nodded and mumbled, “That one’s nice.
