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Fork was considered a high-profile stage because of all the celebrities it attracted during the summer months. With its tip jutting out as far as eighty miles into the Atlantic Ocean, the Hamptons were renowned for an almost-magical light that illuminated the flat picturesque landscape. People flocked there to see and be seen and to enjoy not only all that nature had to offer but also the parties and socializing that went full steam ahead between Memorial and Labor Days.
    Regan’s Fourth of July week would be spent going back and forth between her parents’ home in Bridgehampton and the group house that her best friend, Kit, an insurance agent from Hartford, Connecticut, had unexpectedly joined out there. Group houses in the Hamptons consisted mostly of singles from the New York City area who rented houses together in pursuit of sun, fun, and that elusive someone who might be found at any of the parties that took place in the more than fifty-mile stretch of towns from Westhampton to Montauk. It was like a big game of hide-and-seek for adults.
    Regan and Kit had just gotten back from vacationing in Ireland a few weeks earlier. And here I am leaving again, Regan thought. But she and Kit always planned an adventure together every year, and this time it had been Ireland in June. Now that her parents had the house in Bridgehampton, the week of the Fourth of July seemed to be a good time to take her other vacation of the summer.
    Regan sipped her coffee and stared at the framed prints depicting the coats of arms of both the Regan and Reilly families, which had recently been added to her eclectic collection of wall hangings. Regan had bought them on the bus tour she and Kit had taken of the Ring of Kerry, a tour that made frequent stops at the souvenir shops that had sprung up around just about every bend of what was otherwise a most rural Irish route. The prints were hung next to the window; Regan felt it an appropriate spot, since the Regan family motto was “The hills forever,” and under the Reilly crest, black lettering urged “With fortitude and prudence.”
    The phone next to her began to ring, jarring her back into the present. Quickly she grabbed it.
    “Regan Reilly,” she practically chirped, leaning back slightly in her orthopedically correct chair, a chair that tilted and swayed and was guaranteed to maneuver in almost any direction as it conformed to her body. Regan thought that, considering what she’d paid for it, it should also take her to lunch.
    “Ah, Regan, it’s Austin. How’re ye keepin’?”
    Regan smiled. It was her young Irish neighbor. He’d moved into her apartment complex six months before, coming to Los Angeles from Ireland to pursue a career in comedy. When he found out that Regan was going to vacation in Ireland, he’d insisted she visit the West and attend the birthday party his family was having for his American cousin “Brigid the singer” at the local pub in their little village. “I’m still adjusting to being back from Ireland, Austin. Your family was so great. They sure know how to throw a party. Thanks again.”
    “Ah, they enjoyed having you there, Regan. That’s actually why I’m calling.”
    “Really?”
    Austin cleared his throat. “You haven’t heard anything about what’s been going on with Brigid this week?”
    “No, I haven’t,” Regan said quickly, picturing the beautiful green-eyed, redheaded dynamo whose singing and fiddle-playing at her party got everyone dancing, including some on the bar. Regan knew that after her birthday bash Brigid had been going directly back to Nashville to get ready for the tour to launch her debut album. Austin had said her record company was pulling out the stops; after her hit single, they were expecting the album to take off.
    But Austin’s tone sounded worried.
    “Well, first of all, she was at Fan Fair last week.”
    “What’s Fan Fair?” Regan asked.
    “An annual five-day celebration in Nashville. Country music singers