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"Why did—when did she leave?" What was Jay doing wrong, to be shedding staff like this? First the new chauffeur, now this.

"Oh, I don't know." Mrs. Dantry waved a hand. "A month ago, or three weeks. We have a new girl now, Molly Riggs. Perhaps she'll prove less flighty."

But Nora hadn't been flighty. She'd been lively and fun. And she hadn't said goodbye.

"Why, Miss Gatsby!" An imposing figure of a man with a tremendous gray mustache emerged from the passageway at the far side of the hall. "You're safely arrived! Welcome home."

"Thank you, Beecham." Greta felt her spirits lift at the greeting. "It's good to be back."

Beecham was the Gatsbys' butler and the longest-serving member of staff—a lofty, formal sort of man who, behind his rather prim facade, Greta suspected was quite fond of her and Jay. He was a butler of the most old- fashioned sort, loyal and punctilious and terribly proud. Jay had been most fortunate to secure his services and retain them all these years.

"Your brother and his guests are in the garden, Miss Gatsby," Dantry informed her, and then, with a slight wrinkle of the nose: "Playing a game, I believe."

Her tone left no doubt as to her views on such behavior. Greta briefly wondered what sort of a child Dantry had been, but was forced to abandon the exercise; one simply couldn't conjure such a vision.

"Then I shall change out of my traveling things and join them."

Greta made her way across the marble tile and took the stairs two at a time, hearing a faint tsk from Dantry behind her. It was wonderful to be free! And though it really was too bad about Nora, one couldn't let that spoil the pleasure of a homecoming. No doubt working under Dantry all this time must have been a rather joyless endeavor. It had been a strained relationship, with Dantry frequently lamenting that Nora's Irish brogue lowered the tone of the household, and Nora returning, sotto voce, that she'd rather have the voice of a Mick than the mind of a shrew. Upstairs, Greta ran a damp washcloth over her dusty skin, then flung open her wardrobe and wriggled out of the tired traveling clothes, letting them fall in a heap at her feet.

Greta's bedroom was a girlish confection of pink and white, picked out by Jay for her many years ago. She hadn't felt quite right in it then nor did she now—it had always felt rather like sleeping inside a large slice of cake—but it was home, and that was what mattered. She rifled through her wardrobe, and found the harem pants Jay so hated, but which she found so comfortable, and donned a fresh blouse. Finally, she wrapped a headband around her temples to hold back the copper-tinted locks already curling in the humidity, and glanced in the mirror. How wonderfully modern her new hair looked! And rather dashing, with the boyish trousers.

Trousers! Just a few years ago it would have seemed impossible that a woman should wear them. Greta cast a glance at the small celluloid print she kept framed on her bedside table. What would her mother and father say if they could see her now? She imagined her father would be rather shocked by the new fashions, but her mother would approve, and would surely talk him around.

Smiling a little wistfully, Greta gave herself a last approving glance in the mirror before turning to run back downstairs.

In the dining room, the French doors were flung wide, but there was no one in view—they must be around the side of the house. Daisy's laugh drifted in on the warm air, with its top note of indolent amusement. Daisy Buchanan did have a way of making herself heard first.

Greta stepped out onto the lawn, following the silvery trill. She was almost at the corner of the house when a sound cut through the silence that made her stumble and her heart race. Had that been...had she just heard a gunshot?

CHAPTER TWO

Greta burst around the corner, then almost laughed with relief at the sight before her: a great bull's-eye set up in the middle of the lawns and four clearly uninjured figures standing in a line before it. So her brother had brought his guests out for a little target practice.

Jay had always fancied himself rather a keen shot, and enjoyed showing it off. It was fortuitous indeed that the Gatsby mansion sat on its own thirty acres, given her brother's special penchant for pastimes of the noisier variety. They still had their backs to her—with all the noise they were making, they hadn't heard her approach—and as her heart steadied, Greta took in the sight. They cut such fine figures, glowing in the afternoon sun. On the left, Jay, Golden-haired and slight—from the back, you might think him twenty still; then Daisy, her pale-blue dress aflutter in the breeze; and Tom, that bearlike frame instantly recognizable. And there was another man next to Tom. Could it be...?