“Yeah,” Julie said. She grinned at Claire. “But it’s great that you’re doing it, Claire. You’re a good egg, making time in your life for this.”

“Such a good egg,” Delaney echoed.

“It’s going to be so much work,” Amie said. “Better you than me!”

Claire was late getting home from the rec fields because there was an injured bird on the side of the road. She saw it there, the sparrow or wren, hit by a car, maybe, or nipped by someone’s dog, injured, struggling, but not dead. The kids were limp and exhausted in the backseat; they didn’t see the bird, and Claire thought, Keep going! She only had five minutes to get home in time to relieve Pan. But no, she couldn’t ignore it. When she pulled over and said, “Look at that poor little bird,” the kids perked up a little, but they did not get out of the car.

Claire knelt by the bird. Something was wrong with its leg and its wing. It hopped lopsidedly. Claire heard a car horn. Amie Trimble slowed down.

“What are you doing?”

“Injured birdie patrol,” Claire said.

Amie shook her head, smiled, drove off.

Claire reached out to pick up the bird, but the bird was having none of it. It hopped out of her reach, and Claire hurried down the sandy border of the road chasing it. Julie Jackson drove by. Claire stood up and looked at the back of Julie’s car. Claire was the only person she knew who would stop for a bird, she was the only person she knew who would agree to cochair something as colossal and consuming as the gala—but instead of making her feel virtuous, she felt like a bloody fool. You’re a good egg, making time in your life for this. She didn’t have time—Get back in the car!—but she could not in good conscience leave the lame little bird here. She sneaked up on the bird and got a hand under it. The kids were cheering her on now from the car. This was all the little bird needed: it got aloft, flew away. Claire was relieved. She headed back to the car. The kids were clapping.

A few days later, Claire and Siobhan went on one of their rare girls’ nights out, just the two of them, eating cheeseburgers and frites and drinking wine at Le Languedoc. There was a viognier on the wine list, and Claire’s mind flickered to Lock and how she had wanted, more than anything during that meeting, to please him. She ordered the wine, but she did not bring up the topic of Lock Dixon with Siobhan, because if she had, Siobhan would have teased her. Siobhan had something of the schoolyard bully in her. She taunted, she poked, she prodded; she was always making outlandish suggestions and daring Claire to join her. It was commonly understood that Siobhan was naughty and Claire was nice; Claire was sweet and Siobhan was spicy; Siobhan carried the pitchfork, Claire wore the halo. Siobhan cursed like a sailor and danced on tabletops. Claire carried spiders outside instead of smushing them in a paper towel like a normal person. Siobhan was the one people wanted to be stuck with on a deserted island; Claire was the choice if the plane was going down and there was only one parachute. She would hand it right over.

“Let’s go to the Chicken Box,” Siobhan said now. “Find a couple of hot guys and go dancing.”

“No way,” Claire said.

Siobhan frowned. Her darling square glasses slipped down her nose. “You’re no fun,” she said, inhaling her wine. “Why couldn’t I have gotten a sister-in-law who was fun? You’re a boring bore.”

Yes, Claire felt like a boring bore, but she also felt virtuous, and doubly so because she knew Siobhan wouldn’t go looking for trouble on her own, and she was correct. They paid their bill; they went home to their husbands.

The next day, at hockey practice, Siobhan’s son Liam got slammed against the boards and suffered a gruesome break in his arm. Carter flew with Liam to Boston, where he was going to be operated on, while Siobhan stayed home with Aidan and cried and worked her way around the rosary beads.

Surgery, she said. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Cutting up my baby. Putting him under.

Claire went to the grocery store while the kids were at school, with the idea of getting a chicken to roast to take to Siobhan and Aidan, as well as some Oreos and ice cream to cheer them up. The store was quiet and nearly empty.

Claire was relieved that she and Siobhan had not misbehaved the other night. Unlike the Crispin brothers, Claire and Siobhan were Irish Catholics and hence were united in the belief that when you did something bad, something bad happened to you.

But what if that wasn’t true? Claire thought as she wandered down frozen foods in search of Häagen-Dazs. What if things weren’t connected? After all, Siobhan had behaved like a saint, and Liam still got hurt.

Claire heard a harsh laugh. She looked up and, at the other end of the aisle, saw Daphne Dixon. Ooooooooohhhh. Very bad. Claire could spend hours having conversations in the Stop & Shop with nearly anyone, but Daphne Dixon was someone Claire did her best, now, to avoid. She wanted to duck behind the tall display of dog food and disappear, but Daphne spotted her. The laugh, which sounded like the cackle of a satanic rock star, seemed to be aimed at Claire.

“Hi,” Claire called out. She waved but made no motion forward. She could get away with just this, perhaps—a wave and pivot—and at the expense of Siobhan’s ice cream, she was out of there. She did get a gander at Daphne, however, and was surprised to find that she looked fabulous. She’d had her hair colored so that it was very dark, and she wore a white tank top and a quilted jacket and a gold medallion necklace that glinted against her tan breastbone.