Riverside Drive. Laura Wormer Van

you to be ready.”

      Silence.

      It wasn’t a lie, what Cassy had said. But it certainly wasn’t the whole truth behind “playin’ dress-up.” The first time Cassy had coaxed Rosanne out of her usual cleaning garb and into a dress, Cassy had been quite taken aback. For some reason Cassy couldn’t understand, Rosanne seemed determined to conceal from the world not only her body but the basic truth of an attractive face. Here, right now, in the mirror, was a nice-looking young woman with long, wavy brown hair, large brown eyes (with lashes to die for) and a slightly Roman nose. And her skin! Twenty-six years of a difficult life, and yet not a mark was to be found on Rosanne’s complexion.

      And so the whole truth had a lot to do with Cassy’s pleasure at performing a miracle make-over. And it did seem miraculous to Cassy, this transformation of Rosanne, because she herself always looked the same—at her best. And Cassy longed for a startling transformation for herself, but there was no transformation to be had. No, that was not true. There was one long, painful, startling transformation left to Cassy now—to lose her beauty to age. Others might not have noticed yet but, boy, she had. Every day. Every single day.

      “I want you to enjoy what you have while you’ve got it,” Cassy murmured, picking up an eyeliner pencil.

      Rosanne made a face in the mirror (decidedly on the demonic side) and then sighed. “Well, if I’m gonna lose it, maybe I don’t wanna get used to havin’ whatever it is you keep sayin’ I got.”

      “Youth,” Cassy said, smiling slightly, tilting Rosanne’s face up. “Close your eyes, please.”

      “Youth?” Rosanne said, complying with Cassy’s request. “Man, if this is youth, then middle age’ll kill me for sure.”

      “I know what you mean,” Cassy said.

      The doorbell rang again.

      “So you’re on strike, or what?”

      “Maybe,” Cassy said. “Hold still.”

      Ten minutes later the doorbell rang again and Cassy hurried to reassess and touch up her work. There was a great deal of noise coming from the front of the apartment now, and Cassy hoped that Ivor hadn’t quit yet. “Okay,” she said, stepping back, “that’s it. If I do say so myself, you look wonderful. Here,” she added, handing Rosanne some earrings, “put those on and then come out and make your debut. I better get out there.”

      As Cassy reached the door, Rosanne said, “Hey—Mrs. C.”

      “Yes?”

      Rosanne was admiring herself in the mirror. “Thanks.”

      Cassy smiled. “The pleasure’s all mine.” She turned around and nearly collided with a young woman in the hall. Cassy stepped back, profusely excusing herself. The young woman merely laughed.

      Who was this?

      Looking at Cassy was the most exquisite set of blue-gray eyes she had ever seen. And the eyes were not alone—great eyebrows, good cheekbones, a wide, lovely mouth. And her hair…This wonderfully dark, wildly attractive hair about the woman’s face.

      How young you are, Cassy thought.

      “You must be Cassy,” the girl said. Her voice was deep, her diction perfect.

      Cassy realized the girl was offering her hand to be shaken and so she took it, and did it, still fascinated with her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “and you’re…?”

      “Alexandra Waring,” she said, baring a splendid smile.

      Cassy apparently jerked her hand away, for the girl took hold of her arm and said, “I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

      Oh, Lord, Cassy thought, you may be the one Michael will want to marry. “How old are you?” Cassy said, cringing inside at how ridiculous the question sounded.

      “Twenty-eight,” Alexandra said, laughing.

      “Well,” Cassy said, clasping her hands together in front of her and composing herself slightly, “Michael has told me a great deal about you.” When the girl merely continued to smile at her, Cassy shrugged and said, “So—don’t you want to ask me how old I am?”

      The girl’s smile turned to confusion on that one, and the moment was saved by Rosanne’s head appearing over Cassy’s shoulder. “I saw you in the Daily News,” she said. “Liz Smith says they’re gonna can Boxby to make room for ya.”

      “I really don’t know,” Alexandra said vaguely.

      “Better read Liz Smith then,” Rosanne suggested.

      “Oh, brother!” cried a booming voice. It was Michael, his six-foot-two frame looming from the other end of the hallway. Cassy could already tell that he was three—no, maybe only two—sheets to the wind. “What are you doing, Cassy, introducing Alexandra to the maid?”

      “I was just about to.” Cassy made the appropriate gestures. “Rosanne, this is Alexandra Waring. Alexandra, Rosanne DiSantos.”

      Michael laughed, lumbering down to the group. “Who is this?” he cried, reaching around Cassy to pull Rosanne out into view. “Wooo-weee, look at you! How did you get so gorgeous?”

      “Hey, watch the merchandise,” Rosanne warned him.

      Alexandra turned to Cassy, smiling slightly. “Has she worked for you long?”

      Cassy glanced at her. “Three years.” Her eyes swung back to Michael. “Not to be nosy, but where have you been?”

      “Out,” Michael said, yanking the skirt of Rosanne’s dress.

      “Yeah,” Rosanne said, yanking her dress back. “Five hours gettin’ ice. Gettin’ iced is more like it.”

      “Big bad Rosanne, huh?” Michael said, putting up his dukes.

      “You two—” Cassy began.

      “Hey, Mr. C,” Rosanne said, sparring as best she could in the confined space, “listen, we gotta go easy on Mr. Moscow tonight. He’s the last guy they’ll send over.”

      “Mr. Moscow?” Alexandra asked.

      “The bartender,” Cassy said, catching the sleeve of Michael’s sweat shirt. “You better get changed.”

      He stopped sparring and looked at her. “I stopped by the station,” he said.

      “May I throw my things in there?” Alexandra asked, nodding toward the bedroom. “Cassy?”

      “What?”

      “My things—may I put them in there?”

      “Stop lookin’ at me like that,” Rosanne said, swatting Michael’s arm. “I’m not gonna be a cleanin’ houses forever, ya know.”

      “Rosanne,” Cassy said, “will you please get out there and pass hors d’oeuvres? And be forewarned that Amos has an animal on his head.”

      “Amos,” Michael sighed, leaning heavily into the wall. “What an asshole.”

      “He claims you gave him that thing for his birthday.”

      “Yeah,” Michael sighed. “It’s a hyena. Looks like him, doesn’t it?”

      “I’m takin’ the sponge with me then,” Rosanne said, moving down the hall, “just so ya know.”

      “Cassy—” Alexandra tried again.

      “Yes?”

      “My things?”

      “Yes. In there. On the bed.”

      “And I’ll help you,” Michael said, brightening.

      Cassy snatched his arm and turned him around. “You, in the kitchen—now.”

      “Wait,”