Her grandfather regarded her in consternation. "What in the world makes you think I have the answer? You know my record with marriage proposals: I struck out twice."

"But, when it came to accepting a proposal, you hit it out of the park, Gramps, and that's what I need help with." Bonnie rose to her feet, and began wearing a path onto the deep pile of the intricately-patterned Oriental rug. "Trev and me, we're compatible in every way: we have similar backgrounds, we're both well-educated, we share the same views on politics and religion, we have the same values. I love his family — the Senator and Mrs. Wyndham-Pryce couldn't be more welcoming — and Mom and Dad already treat Trev like a third son. He's drop-dead gorgeous — did you know he's made the Top 10 Most Eligible Men in D.C. list three years running? He's generous, super-considerate…"

"Kind to small animals and little old ladies. Yeah, I get the picture," Grandpa B interrupted with a trace of impatience. "Still, with all he's got going for him, you're not positive you want to say 'yes.' So… what's the hold-up?" He screwed up his face, as if ransacking his mind for possibilities, but Bonnie was fairly confident it was all for show. "Must be our boy Trev's no good in the sack."

"Gramps!" Bonnie gasped, more amused than scandalized. "If you must know, Trev's a wonderful lover. I have no complaints on that score: none."

Her adviser threw up his hands, obviously stumped. "Sounds to me like you love the man."

"I do love him. Everybody loves him. There're dozens of women who'd snap him up in a minute if he gave them the tiniest sign."

"But, he only has eyes for you." He nodded slowly. "You know the person you should really talk to? Your Grammy A. She turned Hodgins down twice, that I know of. Could've been more."

Bonnie consulted the exquisite Patek-Philippe wrist watch Grammy T had bequeathed her in her will, along with many other fabulous baubles and trinkets. "It'll be late afternoon in Paris. She's probably hosting one of her famous salons, and queening it over the artistic elite of the city from the comfort of her high-backed chair. Did I tell you she insists we speak French whenever I video-chat with her?"

"Looking out for your best interests, no doubt. She doesn't want you losing the fluency you gained when you were living with her last year. You might want to go back to France one of these days."

"For work, almost certainly. There's a fellowship at the Louvre I'd drop everything for." She stopped her pacing, and dropped back down on the ottoman. "Everything, except the kind of love you had with Grammy T. That's the kind of marriage I want, Gramps. You know, there were times, when Grammy was in the hospital, I'd stop by to see her, and the two of you… it was like you were in your own separate world, oblivious to everyone and everything but each other: you, sitting by her bed, holding her hand, and Grammy, lying back against the pillows, looking at you with such a serene smile on her face. It was as if you were having whole conversations in silence, speaking only with your eyes. Am I being greedy to want a connection like that for myself? Unrealistic? Maybe the kind of love you two had is exceptionally rare, or a matter of unbelievable luck, I don't know…"

She fixed him with a look she hoped spoke eloquently of her inner turmoil as well as her absolute faith in him to put everything right. Her Grandpa B had always been there for her, unlike her scattershot parents. Her mother had always been, and continued to be, immersed in running the family's charitable foundation by day, and churning out the next generation of Reich series novels by night, while her father was absorbed in overseeing the Hodgins Research and Development Lab, and in steering the burgeoning conglomerate whose first two products had been the ever-popular Opie and Thurston's Special Sauce, and the indispensable Ultra-Rubber Mat. For all intents and purposes, she and her brothers had been raised by their maternal grandparents with whom they shared a large, walled compound in Virginia. If she scraped her knee, or bumped her head, she sought comfort from her Gramps, who always had time to dab away the blood or apply an ice pack. When she was disconsolate, she could always curl up in his lap and be soothed. He was her companion in good times, too: her swimming coach, her skating instructor, her checkers opponent, her fellow-explorer in the many fantastic realms of children's literature. He was her bulwark and security, her champion and cheerleader: her very best friend.

"Let me ask you a question," he said now. "If you're wrong about Trev, if he doesn't pop the question tonight, how will you feel? Relieved, or disappointed? Don't think. Just answer."

"Relieved," she said, on a sigh.

"And, what if he never asks you?" He held up a hand, forestalling her objection. "I agree it's unlikely, but go with me, here. Still relieved?"

She shook her head. "He could be the one, Gramps. It's just… I don't want to have any doubts."

"You want my advice? Here it is, then: be honest with the man. If you don't know your own mind yet, just tell him."

"It's not my mind, Gramps. Rationally, I recognize Trevor is perfect for me. I'd be a fool to let him get away. It's my heart that's torn."

"And, the heart wants what it wants, as a wise chef once said to me." Her grandfather's thoughtful expression suddenly sharpened, and he regarded her with a look narrowed by suspicion. "You're holding out on me, Jelly Bean. There's something you aren't telling me. What is it?"

Bonnie was conscious of the quickening of her heartbeat. "I… I don't know what you mean, Gramps. I… I've told you everything."

"You said your heart was 'torn.' That implies a pull in two directions. Trev's tugging one way, and… someone's tugging the other. The question is: who?"

She tried a deprecating shake of the head. "You've got the wrong end of the stick, Gramps, believe me!"

He straightened in his chair, a new gleam in his eye. In the Reich books, she remembered, Agent Andy always enjoyed sparring with the reluctant witness. "You not only look like Grammy, you can't tell a convincing lie, either. Just look at you: you're breathing faster, your cheeks are flushed, and you can't meet my eyes. What're you hiding?"

"All right," she conceded, unhappily. "There is someone… a man, who… intrigues me. But, he's totally unsuitable."

"Unsuitable," her grandfather repeated, drawing the word out as though assessing all its possible meanings. "Married?"

"No, divorced, and not at all amicably. Custody battles. There's a five-year-old boy caught in the middle, and the ex-wife wields him like a weapon."

Her grandfather's face darkened ominously, reminding her, belatedly, that he had engaged in similar skirmishes with her Uncle Parker's mother in his early years. Happily, they had managed to put their differences behind them, and Parker hadn't paid the price of their break-up too long. She hoped, briefly, that Grandpa B had been thrown off-track by the recollection, but no such luck. "Got some life experience, then. Too old?"

"No, he's got only five or six years on me." The same age gap that had separated her grandparents.

"Religious differences?"

"I believe he may be a cultural Jew, but it's not because I'm a shiksa that he disapproves of me."

His eyes widened, and his jaw sagged noticeably. "Say again? Did I hear you correctly? He disapproves of you? Bonita Angel Booth-Hodgins?" When she nodded, he snapped, "Why didn't you just say 'unsuitable on the grounds of insanity,' then? The man is obviously mad as a hatter, or a certified imbecile."

"That sounds promising!" Bonnie turned toward the doorway to see her brother Junior guide a hover-tray bearing some flatware and a napkin-covered dish into the room. "Who's gone bonkers, and what'd he do to prove it?"

Grandpa B ignored the questions, and waved Junior away irritably. "Take that out of here. I'm not hungry."

"You know the old saying, Gramps: 'appetite comes with eating.' Anyway," he added, steering the tray to descend onto the glass-topped coffee table. "You don't even know what's in the ramekin."

"Some nutritious pap or other your mother cooked up for me," he growled.

"Wrong on both counts," Junior answered placidly. "It's an old favorite of mine I whipped up for lunch, and it's guaranteed to be hard on the arteries. I nearly gobbled down the whole casserole myself, but then, like the devoted grandson I am, I thought of you." Junior whisked away the napkin to reveal a mound of golden elbow noodles glistening in runny cheese sauce.

"Well, then…" Their grandfather pushed down on the footrest with limited success; Junior and Bonnie added their might, and soon had him sitting up. "Give it here. You didn't forget the fresh-ground nutmeg, did you?"

"Gramps!" Junior reared back, mock-offended. "What'd you take me for?"