The Reluctant Cinderella. Christine Rimmer

      Megan took charge, moving in close, tapping lightly on the door, asking gently, “Molly? Molly, are you all right?”

      Several seconds passed before she answered, “Fine.” Her voice was bright and cheerful—too much so. “Be right out.” She practically sang the words. A moment later, the door swung inward and Molly emerged on a suspicious cloud of minty-fresh scent: breath spray. No doubt about it. “Hey.” Molly fluffed her long, curly hair and smiled a wide, forced smile. “Great party, huh? Megan, I don’t know how that sister of yours does it. Single with three kids and a full-time job. But the house looks fabulous and the party is…perfect.” She patted Megan’s arm. “I’m sure it helps to have you here to pitch in.”

      Before Megan could reply, Rebecca tried again. “Molly, are you certain you’re—”

      Molly didn’t even let her finish. “Whew. I need some of that lemonade Angela’s been passing around. How ’bout you?”

      Rebecca got the message: whatever had been going on behind the powder room door, Molly had no intention of discussing it. “Uh. Well, alrighty. Sounds great. Megan?”

      Megan still had to make sure the crier upstairs in the kids’ bathroom was all right. And check on Anthony. “You guys go ahead.”

      So the two women turned and left her just as Zooey Finnegan, the gorgeous model-slim, auburn-haired nanny who looked after widower Jack Lever’s kids, came through the arch from the family room. “Terrific party,” she said with a warm smile as she slipped into the empty powder room and softly shut the door.

      Megan made for the stairs. Halfway up, she ran into Anthony, who came barreling down paying zero attention to where he was going.

      “Whoa, there, cowboy.” Megan laughed, catching him by the arms and righting him before he fell against the stair rail.

      “Sorry, Aunt Megan,” he muttered, looking down.

      “No prob.” She waited until he slanted her a glance before softly chiding, “Olivia says you yelled at her.”

      He let out a snort. “Well. I was in the bathroom. She kept knocking. What’d she expect?”

      “She didn’t expect yelling,” Megan said quietly. “Yelling is not a good thing.”

      “Okay, okay.” He stuck out his lower lip, but he did mutter, “I’m sorry.”

      “Tell that to your sister.”

      He was staring at his shoes again. “Awright, I will. Can I go now? Please?”

      She released him. “Remember. No running on the—”

      He’d already zipped around her and was headed down—fast, but no longer at a run. He called over his shoulder, “Okay, okay. I won’t. I promise.”

      Megan stared after him for a second or two, smiling a doting auntie’s smile. Anthony was a good kid. He’d get past this sulky phase—soon, she hoped.

      And there was still the crier in the kids’ bath to see about.

      In the upstairs hall, the door to the bathroom was shut. Megan stood in front of it and wondered what she should do next. She couldn’t hear any crying coming from in there. Maybe she should just—

      Wait. There: a sob. A stifled one, but still. A definite sob.

      So, okay. Maybe a little further investigation was required. She waited—and yep. There it was again: another sob, followed by a distinct sniffle and a tiny, choked-off wail. Olivia had got it right. Someone was in there crying.

      When you cried in the bathroom at a block party, well, you should get sympathy. Someone should come and lend a shoulder to cry on.

      That would be Megan. On Danbury Way, where she’d lived for three years now, Megan was considered a person everybody could trust: nonthreatening, patient and understanding. All the women liked her. They could tell her anything and she’d never betray their secrets.

      Sometimes the role of confidante got a little old, especially lately, when so much had changed in her life outside the neighborhood. But then again, somebody had to “be there” for everyone else. And Megan was used to it. She’d been fitting in, getting along and listening to everybody else’s problems, since she was seven and a half years old.

      Discreetly, she tapped on the bathroom door.

      Silence.

      After a thirty-second interval, she tapped again.

      More silence.

      Finally, she spoke. “It’s Megan. Are you…all right in there?”

      Another silence. Then a sniffle. And finally, hopefully, a woman murmured, “Megan?” More sniffling. “Is it really…” A sob. A tiny hiccup, then, “…you?” Even with all the sniffling, Megan recognized that soft Texas drawl. It was Carly Alderson.

      Megan probably should have known. She made her voice even gentler. “Come on, Carly. Let me in….”

      A second later, the door opened. Carly, strikingly pretty even with puffy eyes and a red nose, sniffled, sobbed and ushered Megan inside. Once Megan stood on the fluffy green bathroom rug with her, Carly shut the door and punched the lock.

      Then, with a mournful little groan, she sank to the edge of the tub. Megan got the box of tissues from the sink counter and sat down beside her.

      “Oh, Megan…” Carly paused to sniffle some more. She wiped her nose with a torn-up, wrinkled bit of tissue. “I just…I can’t…”

      “Here.” Megan extended the box.

      Carly whipped out a fresh one. Then she buried her red nose in it and sobbed. “I just…I can’t stand it, you know?”

      Megan patted her slim back and stroked her soft blond hair and made soothing noises of support and understanding.

      Finally, Carly pulled herself together enough to announce, “It’s final today. Our divorce. Greg and I are…no longer husband and wife. It’s over. Officially. Completely. Kaput.”

      “Carly. I’m so sorry….”

      Greg Banning, Carly’s ex, had moved out months ago—well, actually, Carly had kicked him out. As a gesture of fury and defiance. Because he’d asked her for a separation. She’d kicked him out and started calling herself by her maiden name.

      But it had all been pure bravado. Carly wanted him back. Desperately. Getting her handsome husband to return to her was all Carly wanted, all she talked about.

      No one in the neighborhood knew why Greg had asked for the split. There had been no big scenes, no angry confrontations—not that anyone knew about. Carly claimed they never fought.

      But then, out of nowhere, he’d asked for a separation. She’d tossed him and his personal belongings out on the lawn of the great big house they owned that took up two lots in the heart of the cul de sac that was Danbury Way. Greg had left and never come back.

      The neighbors assumed there must be another woman. But no one had seen such a woman, or had a clue who she might be.

      Carly dabbed at her wet cheeks. “I know I shouldn’t have locked myself in here. But I couldn’t stand it downstairs. Everybody’s being so sweet to me, feeling so sorry for me. And then there’s Rhonda and Irene. Those two just won’t leave me alone. You know how they are. Like vultures, hanging around, picking at the bones of everybody’s troubles….”

      Rhonda Johnson and Irene Dare were the neighborhood’s most notorious gossips. They lived around the corner, next door to each other, on Maplewood Lane.

      “Those two,” said Megan, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Ignore them.”

      “Oh, I’m trying. I truly am. But every time I turn around, one of them is standing there, looking so sympathetic, whispering how I should tell her everything,