“Hi,” Gloria began.

“Hello, dear,” her mother said, putting down her magazine. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” she responded. “I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

Her father sat up. “What is it?”

Gloria was not sure how to begin. “You know how I’ve been spending the last few weeks with a friend?”

“Yes?” Mary said.

Gloria’s words came quickly. “Well, my friend is a man—and he’s more than just a friend. We went up to the Deerfield Inn a couple of weekends ago and I’ve been with him every night since.”

Gloria watched her parents. As usual, her father’s expression gave away nothing. Her mother’s face, on the other hand, seemed to brighten.

“You’ve found a nice man?” Mary asked hopefully.

Gloria nodded. “He’s very special. We’ve decided to move in together.”

“I see,” Dr. Ayars said.

“We’re in love.”

“I see,” her father said again with a small nod.

“What’s the young man’s name, dear?” Mary asked, smiling.

Gloria pushed back her blond mane. “Stan Baskin.”

The smile vanished from her mother’s face as if she had been slapped. “What?”

“David’s brother, Mom. Oh, that’s right. You didn’t meet him. He came to Boston for David’s funeral. . . . Dad, you met him, right?”

“Actually, I didn’t,” James said matter-of-factly. “There was so much confusion and all at the funeral I didn’t get the chance. But Laura had told me what a comfort he has been to her.”

“He has,” Gloria agreed. She glanced toward her mother, whose lovely features were frozen in a look of terror.

James removed his reading glasses. “So how did this all happen?”

“It just did.” Gloria shrugged. “We’re very much in love.”

Mary finally found her vocal cords. “Honey, are you really sure about this? I mean, moving in with a man is a big step.”

“I know that, Mom, but I’m thirty-one years old. I’m not a child anymore. I love Stan.”

Panic colored Mary’s eyes. “But, Gloria, I don’t think you should—”

“We wish you the best of luck,” her father interrupted, silencing his wife with a hard glare. “If you’re happy, we’re happy.”

Oblivious to her mother’s reservations, Gloria ran over and threw her arms around her father’s neck and kissed him. Then she did the same to her mother. “I love you both.”

“And we love you,” James said, smiling warmly. “We’d love to meet this young man as soon as it’s convenient for you. Bring him over for dinner one night.”

“No—!” Mary stopped, composed herself. “I mean, only if you want to, Gloria. We don’t want to pressure you into anything.”

“You’re not pressuring me. I think that would be nice.”

“Good,” her father added.

“Dad, can you help me put my bags in the car?”

“Sure, honey. I’ll be there in a second.”

Gloria left the room. James saved his page with a marker and gently placed the periodical on the coffee table. He sighed, slowly stood, and then turned toward his wife. “I think it’s time we talked.”

“I’M telling you there is something weird about that guy,” Earl Roberts said to Timmy Daniels.

“No kidding,” Timmy answered. “I don’t think I’ve heard him say five words since he beat me in that three- point contest two weeks ago.”

The two players took sips of water from the fountain and headed back toward the court. Sweat drenched them both. For that matter, sweat drenched all fifteen of the players still in the Celtics camp. It was break time. All the players were scattered around the gym floor, catching their breath during the five-minute rest.

All save one.

Timmy collapsed onto the floor next to Earl. “The guy doesn’t say anything. Just plays and leaves.”

“That’s fine with me,” Earl said.

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t like him. Something about him just ain’t right.”

“Like?”

Earl shrugged. “Let’s face it. Mark Seidman is a great player. He can shoot and pass like nobody’s business.”

“So?”

“So where the hell has he been? How can someone be that good and never have played college ball?”

Timmy positioned himself to watch Mark shoot. “Got me. I think he told Clip that he went to school overseas. His family traveled around a lot or something.”

“Still,” Earl replied, “nobody’s ever heard of this guy. And he won’t say a word to the press. They’ve been trying to get him to talk, but he just blows them off. What rookie does that? I mean, it’s gonna be his first year in the NBA and he already acts like a prima donna with the media? I don’t get it.”

Timmy nodded his agreement. “It’s every kid’s dream to play in the NBA and he looks so goddamn sad all the time.”

The two teammates followed the ball as Mark swished jump shot after jump shot.

Earl wiped his sweaty face with a towel. “There’s something else that bothers me.”

“I know what you mean,” Timmy said.

“It’s like he’s trying to play like him on purpose. It’s pissing me off.”

Timmy turned toward Earl. “I don’t think that’s it,” he said. “There’s other players with that jump shot.”

“Yeah,” Earl replied, as another of Mark’s shots fell through the metallic hoop, “but how many of them have that kind of accuracy?”

WHEN Laura and Serita entered the Heritage of Boston Bank together, everyone stopped. Typewriters halted their clacking. Heads turned. Eyes stared. Mouths dropped. Men gawked. Walking alone, Laura and Serita could make a man’s eyes water; looking at them both at the same time could cause a cerebral accident.

“They’re staring at us,” Serita whispered to her.

“You love it.”

“Always have.”

They moved passed the bank clerks toward the executive-office area. Heads, eyes, mouths, men followed them. When the women were out of sight, Laura could hear the typewriters start up again.

An elderly secretary with gray-green eyes looked up from her desk. She slipped on her glasses and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. A sign on her desk read ELEANOR TANSMORE. “May I help you?”