The upper lip hairs. The chin hairs, as if I were a nanny goat. The nostril hair! I had no recollection of my mother having to trim her nostril hair, yet there it was, a cluster of fur, as if a small animal had taken up residence in my nasal cavity. I had to check moles, since they seemed to be fertile soil for hair follicles. Every day, it took longer and longer for me to get ready.

I had to look my best. It was a matter of discipline. If I let one thing go, what would be next? Me wandering down to the post office in a bathrobe covered in dog hair?

Another indignity: the noises. The grunts and oomphs as I got into or out of a chair, coming out of me of their own volition. The crackle of my knees as I went up the stairs, the pop of a joint if I knelt down. When I rolled my neck to loosen the muscles, the cartilage whispered and creaked like an old windmill. Despite my daily yoga classes, my body was loosening, sagging, drifting ever downward.

I learned not to wait to go to the bathroom, as the second I saw the toilet, my bladder wanted to empty immediately. I had to file down my toenails because they became thick and yellow and difficult to trim. Though I had strong suspicions about the hygiene of the local nail salon, I finally started making regular appointments there, simply because I couldn’t bend in the shower to spend the necessary time. Donelle didn’t even try, and her feet looked more like malformed hooves than anything found on a human.

Friends call you less as you age. Or, if they do call, they simply recite a litany of their pains and diagnoses. “My polyps! My bunion! My irritable bowel!” I did not degrade to that level—Mother would spin in her grave—but those calls were much more frequent than the invitations I used to receive. That was one reason I kept up with Friday night cocktails. It was my link to sanity some weeks. I’d invite Miller Finlay, who had done some renovations on Sheerwater a few years ago, and the Smiths, my neighbors from down the street. In July and August, I’d include some of the more pleasant summer people—the Drs. Talwar: Vikram, a cardiologist, and Saanvi, a thoracic surgeon; the lesbian couple, Alesia and Anne, both of them veterinarians.

It made me feel . . . relevant. Vital. I was not invisible, not in Sheerwater, not when I had all but sold my soul to ensure that, yes, I would live well, with dignity and grace and style. I would not be remembered as a shriveled little lump under coarse sheets in a nursing home with frightened eyes and filthy diapers. No. I would go out on my own terms, definitively and decisively and with grace, as I had lived my life.

And I would make sure my nostril hairs were trimmed back, thank you very much.

CHAPTER 3

    Emma

The night of the fateful phone call, I told Pop about Genevieve’s offer when Riley was safely in her room, music playing.

“Don’t trust that ancient windbag further than you can throw her,” he said, his impressively bushy eyebrows lowering in a scowl.

“I know.”

“Did she try to bribe you?”

“Yep. She said she’d put Riley in the will.”

“Don’t trust her.” He paused. “How much is she worth?”

“I have no idea. The house, though . . . a lot.”

He grunted. “She’ll probably sell it for your sister.”

“Hope has a trust that takes care of her. She’s set for life.”

“At least there’s that. Well, listen. Riley doesn’t need that old cow’s money. You made it work all by yourself.” He tugged at his flannel shirt and nodded at me.

“It took me eleven years to get my degrees, Pop.”

“Well, you had a baby! Riley won’t. She’s smarter than you. No offense.”

“None taken. I also had you, Pop. We’d have been homeless without you.”

His craggy face hardened. “You would’ve been homeless because of that woman, who’s now trying to bribe you two back to that pit of vipers.”

“To be fair, there’s only one viper.” Donelle might have been a somewhat inept housekeeper, but she had always been pretty nice. I wondered abruptly if she was still alive. Genevieve would’ve told me if she died, wouldn’t she?

Pop harrumphed. “That woman has enough venom for an entire pit, then.”

He had me there. “I’m gonna take a walk,” I said. It was a lovely night, and walking through our homey little neighborhood always soothed me. Peeking into the neighbors’ windows, waving to the folks coming home from work or sitting on their porches, smelling the good smells of dinner cooking.

It was so normal here. Pop was the typical midwesterner, stoic and kind, understated in all things but generous to a fault, hardworking and decent. The houses were small and tidy, the yards neat, the trees sturdy and unremarkable. It was so safe.

Stoningham was not normal. It wasn’t safe. The little borough twisted and turned along the rocky shoreline of Long Island Sound, every house prettier than the last, every yard landscaped and designed, crews of Spanish-speaking laborers uprooting every weed, deadheading every blossom. Live-in housekeepers and nannies were the norm. The people of Stoningham were the überpreppy set, driving their Mercedes and Audis, all the kids going to the best colleges. If anyone worried about money, they hid it well. There was competition in the very air, and Genevieve had been the undisputed queen.

I wondered if it was still the same. After all, I hadn’t been back in seventeen years. Jason still lived there, but we didn’t talk about the town, and he rarely saw Genevieve, certainly never to speak to. They ran in different circles. And she hated him.