For one weak moment, she allowed herself to wonder if she was making a mistake. But no. Last resorts were, by definition, never mistakes. When one had no choice, one couldn’t choose badly, right? Still, what had seemed like a workable idea in Bob’s office felt a bit less reasonable outside James Blake’s front door. She concentrated on her breathing as she parked next to the Italian fountain that had nearly given Kate a stroke when she’d seen it go up last fall. Did you hear that thud, Belinda? That was my property value falling. Thank you, nouveau riche redneck neighbors. Bel actually didn’t mind the fountain. She got out of the van and patted the ample backside of one of its naked frolickers. The world could use a few more women who didn’t look at a Tic Tac and see lunch. Speaking of which, Bel retrieved a grocery sack from the passenger seat of her van with a twitch of relief. She could handle hotel living—the strange beds, the cheap sheets, the generic showers. But having no place to put her milk, butter and eggs?
