11

Bartholomew cut a fine figure on the dance floor. He was elegant in a dark blue suit, cut to accentuate his broad shoulders and trim hips. The man glided more smoothly than even my rotten cousin Melinda, who unceasingly bragged about her extensive dance lessons. Even while floating effortlessly across the room, he managed to remain the epitome of a man. It was at that moment I understood I needed to make him mine. The only trouble was, he was betrothed to another, and I to yet another. Small concerns, however, when love is involved.

I may have fibbed when I said the "only" trouble. The other trouble was that Bartholomew and I had never formally met.

If I gave the impression that not having actually met Bartholomew was the final trouble, I do apologize because there is yet one more, teensie tiny trouble: I was suspected of killing his grandfather, though I assure you that I did nothing of the sort. The elderly man simply died in my presence; I had nothing, directly, to do with it.