The Mortal Groove by Ellen Hart

together.
    â€œWe were so young,” said Cordelia.
    â€œAnd pigheaded.”
    â€œWant some dessert?”
    â€œMaybe we could split something. You like creme brulee?”
    Cordelia turned up her nose. “How about the molten chocolate cake.”
    â€œI can’t eat chocolate anymore. It gives me heartburn.” “That’s it in a nutshell.” She played with her napkin.
    Melanie picked up the small dessert menu, looked it over. “I should probably just get home. I’m into the second season of
Six Feet Under.
Have to say I’m kind of addicted.”
    â€œWow,” said Cordelia. “I loved that show. I’ve never seen anything I thought was more brilliantly written, acted, or directed.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œWhat’s the best book you’ve read recently?”
    â€œI’d have to think.” She picked up her wineglass, swirled the dregs. “Probably . . . oh,
The Time Traveler’s Wife.
By a woman named Niffenegger. I think it was a first book. I loved it.”
    â€œAmazing,” said Cordelia, looking deep into Melanie’s eyes. “I adored that book.”
    â€œI’m stunned.”
    They eventually moved the conversation back to Cordelia’s loft. Melanie was impressed by the space, but she said she didn’t like Swedish modern furniture.
    â€œMe either,” said Cordelia.
    â€œThen why’s the loft filled with it?”
    â€œIt’s my current idiom. It’s so functionally boring, it kind of appeals to me. ”
    â€œYou really are strange, you know that?” Melanie drifted around the living room. Picking up a picture of Hattie, she said, “Who’s this?”
    â€œMy sister’s daughter, Hattie Thorn Lester. She lived with me for two years. I’ve been more of a mother to her than Octavia ever has.”
    â€œI remember your sister. I can’t imagine her with a kid.”
    â€œTakes a special person.”
    â€œYou hate kids.”
    â€œNot anymore. Hattie is the most important person in my life. She’ll be back, just wait and see.”
    When Melanie turned around to look at Cordelia, her eyes had softened. “This is a whole new side to you.”
    â€œI am
truly
multifaceted. Can’t remember if you’re a kid person or not.”
    â€œI adore children.”
    They sat down on the couch, entranced by each other.
    â€œYou should do something different with your hair,” said Melanie.
    â€œThink so?”
    She touched it.
    They polished off another bottle of wine, just sitting and talking. And later, in the wee hours of the morning, after a long, fierce argument about the merits of oaked versus unoaked Chardonnay, they put their relationship back on track.

 
    Â 
    L ate the following morning, Peter was on his third cup of coffee, reading the paper at the kitchen table, when he got a call from the private investigator he’d hired.
    â€œIt’s Snifflet. You get my invoice?”
    â€œWe’re not done.”
    Shifflet laughed. “You got that right, pal. I dug up some new info.”
    â€œGive.” Sigrid had already left for work, so Peter could talk freely.
    â€œI checked out the Tanhauer who lives on the Upper West Side. No other Matt Tanhauer in Manhattan, and this man’s wife’s name is Carrie, so I think we got the right guy. He’s been working his way up the investment banking ladder for years. He’s a VP now at BKL.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œBenson, Klug and Lockhart. Not big into investment allocation, are we?”
    â€œJust give me the information.”
    â€œTanhauer was a financial analyst when Margaret was adopted.”
    â€œThey
bought
her,” said Peter. “There
was
no legal adoption.”
    â€œRight. Whatever. So I go to the address. It’s a pricey apartment building a few blocks west of Central Park. I talked to the doorman and he says the Tanhauers