“What?” I ask.

“Give it up, Chas. I saw you watching Trevor, comparing him to Ryan, doing that lovey-dovey thing every time Hayden said boo to Trev.”

Crap. I didn’t know I was so bleeping transparent. “Oh,” I mumble.

“Let it go, Chas. That ship sailed, right? Let it go. You have a great thing going on with Ryan. Do you know how many women at the hospital would kill their grandmothers to have a chance with that guy?”

“I know, and I like him! He’s great.”

“So why are you still hooked on Trevor?”

“I am not hooked on Trevor!” She snorts. “I’m not!” I protest. “I was, but I’m not anymore! I have a boyfriend and we’re having a marvelous time, okay?”

“Right.”

I sigh, deflating. “So what should I do, Lainey? Huh? Every time I see Trevor…shit. I don’t even want to follow that train of thought.”

Elaina shifts in her chair. “Yeah, yeah. Maybe you could just…” Her voice trails off. “You have to have a better attitude, okay? Stop looking at Ryan as second best. He’s got a lot of good things about him, doesn’t he? And he really likes you, Chas.”

I swallow. “I know. He’s a good guy.”

“So what is it?”

“I guess I feel like he was looking for a candidate for wife, and I sort of fit the bill.”

“Maybe you just need to spend more time together. Shift your attitude, querida. Trevor was your first love, but he doesn’t have to be the gold standard of men.”

Except he is. Elaina reads my thoughts correctly and throws a pillow at my head. “At least give Ryan a real chance, Chas,” she says. “You said you thought you could love this guy, didn’t you?”

“You’re right, you pain in the ass. Let’s hit the ice cream.”

“Sounds good.” Elaina pushes experimentally on her abdomen. “I think I gained five pounds today. Who knew Mamí could cook like that? Fantastic.”

I go to the kitchen and return with bowls of Coffee Heath Bar Crunch topped with billows of whipped cream. Elaina takes a bite, moans and gives me the head wiggle. “How’s the sex? Is the sex good?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, Elaina, the sex is fine. It’s very good.” Not a lie. Ryan is very pleasing in bed. Very pleasing. Jeesh, listen to me. “Let’s talk about your love life. You and Mark were quite civil today. Very unusual. So, how’s it going? Any progress?”

She chews solemnly. “Yes. And that’s all I’m talking about. One of the things he brought up in counseling is that I tell you everything. Oh, and by the way, you’re not supposed to know we’re going to counseling.”

I smile. “Who do you think told him to go, dummy?”

LYING AWAKE IN BED THAT NIGHT, I come to the realization that Elaina is right. Seeing Trevor and Hayden together again made something click into place. That ship sailed. Train left the station. Airplane has taken off. And Ryan really is a wonderful guy, despite his surgeon-arrogance thing. I’ll listen with a more sincere heart when he calls, let myself be charmed by his precisely considerate, almost courtly ways. I can make things work with him. I will have a wonderful, full, happy life. I will. I already do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE POLICE DEPARTMENT’S computer specialist is named, of all things, Chip. As in Computer Chip. He has evicted me from my desk and is presently combing through my files, checking to see if he can find out who hacked into my system. I haven’t had any more nasty e-mails, and no one has gotten through the new firewalls. No one has further hurt my little toys, either. Right now, I wish I hadn’t called the coppers, since it seems to have blown over. And because my cubicle is too small for two (unless I sit on Computer Chip’s lap, which I think he’d like very much), and because Alan is using the conference room for an interview, I’m forced to work on a laptop in the reception area, directly in front of Lucia.

“Computers are such trouble,” she announces in her tight, judgmental voice. “I don’t even have one at home.”

“Teddy Bear doesn’t need one?” I ask.

“Teddy and I don’t live together yet,” she answers. “We’re waiting until we’re married. Saving ourselves till the wedding night.”

Is that what he’s telling you? I want to ask. I don’t wish to picture Lucia’s love life with Teddy Bear, but come on! Does she think it’s normal for a man in his late thirties to be engaged for almost five years and not have sex? Come on!

“Well, I told Penelope,” she continues. “I knew the paper shouldn’t have started a Web site. ‘It’ll stop people from buying the paper,’ I said.”

I roll my eyes, bite my tongue, clench my toes, but nothing works. “That’s just naive, Lucia,” I tell her. “We need a Web site. In ten years, there might not be a paper anymore, but there will still be a Web site.”

“You don’t know that,” she says. “We were supposed to be taking a bus to the moon by now, too.”

I open my mouth to protest, but heck, she’s right. She flips open her compact and checks her man-in-the-iron-mask style makeup. Today’s lipstick is a blood-red matte, which I’ve never once seen smeared or on her teeth. She’s one of those.

As if reading my mind, she says, “You should wear more makeup, Chastity.”

“I tend to look like a drag queen in more makeup,” I say, glancing at my watch.

“Well, I happen to think a woman should care about her appearance,” she says with a disdainful glance at my chinos, perfectly acceptable blue oxford and snazzy red high-tops. “I happen to think a woman should look her best at all times.”

“And I happen to think you’d look a lot prettier if you chiseled off some of that Kabuki makeup and returned to the land of the living,” I return with a big fake smile. She merely gives me a pitying look and answers the phone with her trademark song. “Eaton Falls Gaze-ette! Lucia Downs speaking!”

“I can’t find anything,” Computer Chip says as he approaches me. “Whoever did it hid his route and hid it well. With the number of hits you get on the Web site, it would take weeks, possibly months, to find out. And your case isn’t exactly a big priority right now.”

“But it would be if I were, say, murdered?” I ask.

“Definitely.” He grins. “You wanna go out sometime, Chastity?”

I smile. “Thanks, but no. I’m seeing someone.”

“And it’s serious?” he asks.

“Mm-hm.”

“Too bad for me. Okay. See you around.”

“Bye, Chip,” I call.

Lucia has on her “I stepped in fecal matter” look. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone, Chastity,” she says.

“I’m dating Ryan Darling,” I say, and for the first time, it feels great to drop his credentials. “Do you know him? He’s a doctor. Trauma surgeon. Black belt in karate. Blond hair, green eyes, six foot two, body like Matthew McConnaughey. I’m going down to the Hamptons this weekend to meet his parents. Well. Must talk to Pen. See you, Lucia.”

THREE DAYS LATER, I’ve never been so happy to be back home.

The trip to Long Island was a mixed bag. The bad thing…well, we’ll get to that. The good thing: We got to see a Yankees game and they won. Oh, and our sex life has made the leap to hyperspace, and not just because I was within spitting distance of Derek Jeter (though that couldn’t have hurt).

Dr. and Mrs. Darling (whom I was urged to call Dr. and Mrs. Darling)…well, they’re the kind of people I’ve read about. Live in the Hamptons, golf, lunch, redecorate their sixteen-room “cottage.” Their last vacation was spent in Brazil having “some work done.” Both of them were quite keen on the newest laser face-lift/Botox treatment and urged me to give it a go. Me. Thirty-one years old, being urged by my potential in-laws to have a face-lift, twenty minutes after walking through the impressive front door. I stifled my urge to run, and tried to be open-minded.

Meanwhile, Bubbles, the much adored Chihuahua of the elder Darlings, snapped and snarled at my luggage from Mrs. Darling’s arms. “Yi! Yi! Yiyiyiyi!” he barked, the shrill noise like small-caliber bullets.

Mrs. Darling set him down, where he promptly attacked my overnight bag. “Oh, Bubbles, you naughty wittle darling!” she said in a hideous falsetto voice as he gnawed with his batlike teeth on the handle. “Don’t you wuv Chastity? Hm? Don’t you just wuv Chastity?” She scooped the angry rodent up, where he continued to snarl at me, flecks of spittle landing in Mrs. Darling’s hair.

Then I was a bit surprised to find that I was supposed to stay in a separate wing (yes, wing) from Ryan. Ryan is, after all, thirty-six years old, and one would assume that his parents wouldn’t feel the need to segregate us. But they did. We had cocktails—martinis, a family tradition—then an awkward, stilted dinner. Glances of concern were exchanged over my large family, Irish surname and profession, though the word “Columbia” brought a twitch of frozen lips to both parent faces. Mrs. Darling barely ate, which explained why she looked as bony and unappetizing as the pale and doomed Gollum.

Self-conscious of my strapping physique, I picked and nibbled as well, irritated with myself even as I did so, and tried to find neutral topics of conversation. “So, Dr. Darling, do you—”

“Yi! Yi! Yi! Yiyiyiyi!”

“Oh, no! You naughty wittle thing!” Mrs. Darling jerked up the damask tablecloth and peered underneath. “Chastity, don’t feel bad, but Bubbles just had a wittle accident next to you. He doesn’t like strangers.”

Ryan continued to eat his salmon, grinning vacantly as Mrs. Darling sent the grim-faced housekeeper in to clean up Bubbles’s wittle accident.

I wasn’t expecting it to be fun, exactly…I’ve met parents before, after all, but this was something else altogether. Some awkwardness is to be expected. But my jaw ached from all that smiling, and my shoulders were tight. When our endless dinner finally ended, Ryan walked me to my bedroom door, professed exhaustion and kissed me on the cheek. And I was more than happy to flop into the king-size bed and fall instantly asleep.

The next day, we drove to Yankee Stadium, sitting in traffic for an hour because rich people don’t take the subway, however superior public transportation may be in getting one to the Bronx. I was wearing my Lou Gehrig T-shirt to show how old school and classy I was, and I hadn’t pinstriped my face, though it is a bit of a family tradition when going to the Stadium. Our seats were twelve rows off the third-base line, and I was a little overcome with the thrill of seeing my boys up close. I may have screamed a few names out, sure. But that’s normal, isn’t it? Did I perhaps eat a lot of hot dogs? Well, if you think four is a lot, then yes, I did. Remember, though, I hadn’t had much to eat the night before, and breakfast consisted of muffins and cappuccino, while, though delicious, is not my usual three bowls of Choco-Puffs or the lumberjack special at Minnie’s Diner.

But I did have a great time at the game. It was hard not to scream out my usual encouragement, but I was on my best behavior (except when Jeter hit a line drive double in the eighth to put my boys in the lead. Needless to say, Jeter did not accept my marriage proposal, but I like to think he was flattered, and I definitely know he heard me).

When we got back, we went for dinner at a high-pressure French restaurant in town, where the Darlings schmoozed with fellow Hamptonites, introducing me as “Ryan’s little friend.” Little. Honestly. I’m five foot eleven and three-quarters. I’d like some respect. Ryan smiled and chatted and held my hand, but he had taken on that zombie affect that many men get in the presence of their parents…distant and lifeless. I pinched him once or twice, just to make sure he was still with me, and he jumped and asked if my meal was okay. Which it was. Small, expensive, delicious, but small, you know?

Finally, though, Ryan snapped out of it. He thought it would be fun to sneak me into his room à la college days, giving a forbidden thrill to our nooky. I sneaked, we were doing it more or less happily (I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about how hungry I was and how I might wrangle a snack), when we heard a little sound.

“Darling?” Mrs. D. crooned, tap-tap-tapping on the door with her manicured fingernails.

“Yi! Yi! Yiyiyiyi!” Bubbles. Great.

“Uh, um, hang on a second, Mother!” blurted the devoted son, hauling his now-naked, apparently illicit girlfriend out of his bed. “Chastity, quick! Get in there!” he whispered, and if I wasn’t being shoved into the closet, I’d have thought his panicked expression was kind of cute. But I was being shoved into the closet, along with my bra and panties—but no other clothes.

“Ryan!” I squawked.

“Be quiet! Please, Chastity!” he begged. “I’ll explain later.” He slammed the door shut.

Being as tall as I am, I couldn’t stand up straight, due to the presence of a shelf that was exactly three inches shorter than I was. Thus, I had to crouch on some ancient lacrosse gear (by the feel of it), which I found a bit uncomfortable. Clenching my jaw, I now found the game of Illicit Girlfriend less than fun. I understood (sort of) Ryan not wanting to get caught in the act, but come on! Hiding me in a closet?

The sound of pants being hastily zipped was heard over the ricocheting yaps of the dog.

“Darling?” Mother called. Illicit Girlfriend wondered why Mother couldn’t find a term of endearment for Devoted Son other than their mutual last name.