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toothpaste on the eruption and keep it covered with a Band-Aid all day?"
    "Probably not," Danni said.
    "My point exactly!" Kiki thundered. "Why should I limit all of my knowledge to just you and Suzi-Suzi and the occasional girl I strike up a conversation with in a nightclub bathroom? I could be helping women all over the world."
    "It's not just a book," Danni said. "It's a humanitarian project."
    "Hello!"
    The taxi rolled to a stop outside Danni's building, and the girls swung out, blew past the leering door-man, and rode the creaky elevator up to Danni's sixth floor studio.
    Danni was a compulsive organizer, so it took no time to find the Gucci box piggy bank. She sat on the bed and gestured for Kiki to join her. "Let's count it. I want to make sure there's enough here to tide you over."
    Kiki just stared at the box. Cash had been stuffed inside to the point of spilling out once the cover was peeled off. They both began to count, but Kiki gave up after the five grand mark. Whatever the final figure was, it would be plenty to see her through this minor funding emergency.
    "You can take another box, too, if you want," Danni offered.
    "This is more than generous," Kiki gushed. "And I'll pay you back every cent." One beat. "Once I'm rich again, of course. I mean, really. If I pay you back too soon, then I might just have to borrow it again. And that would just be tiresome." She scanned the floor of Danni's closet in search of the Gucci boots that had once been nestled inside the cardboard ATM machine positioned on her lap. Suddenly, she saw thema gorgeous brown pair with gold "G" buckles hooked around the ankles. A little yelp escaped her lips.
    "Help yourself," Danni said.
    "You're the best friend in the world." Kiki practically negotiated a dive-and-roll for the coveted shoes.
    "That's what you told Suzi-Suzi when she got you front row seats to see a taping of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart ."
    Kiki grinned. "I meant it then, and I mean it now." A soaring sense of exuberance rushed though her body. What a day! A great book idea, a meaningful encounter with Kirsten Brock, a new Stella top, enough money to momentarily keep the vultures at bay, and these fabulous boots. "You know," she announced sunnily, "everything in my life is starting to move on the right track."
----
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Subject: Just Imagine
     
    Breckin!
    I've had the most delicious thought. Why limit ourselves to a ceremony in Fredericksburg? Think about this: How fabulous would a New York wedding be? You would go wild planning it, and it's so much more convenient for me. I'm sure Roman won't mind. Let's discuss.
     
    Air Kisses, Kiki
----
Chapter Three

     
    The telephone jangled violently.
    Who on earth? And why at this ungodly hour? Kiki stirred, spewing curses in a low growl as she fumbled for the receiver. But first she squinted to make out the clock. A few minutes past nine. What kind of barbarian would dare to call now? As if everyone lived by a farmer's crack-of-dawn schedule.
    "This better be an emergency," Kiki croaked instead of hello.
    "I'd say the end of your career in New York qualifies as one."
    Kiki rose with a start, recognizing the voice instantly. It belonged to Sarah Ann Duckworth, the Birmingham, Alabama debutante turned Manhattan publicist. But forget transplanted sweet Southern girl. In this case, long-lost Soprano child rang with more truth.
    "And if you expect any help with damage con-trol," Sarah Ann went on, "then I suggest that you pay your overdue bill."
    "What are you talking about?" Kiki asked, feigning ignorance about all of it when she really was only clueless about half. In all honesty, she had been thinking about Sarah Ann's recent invoice (the one with deadbeat! scribbled across it in red Sharpie) while the girl at Stella McCartney had been ringing up the eight-hundred-dollar blouse.
    "I'm talking about a public image holocaust!" Sarah Ann shrieked. "I would rather explain why you