But first I’d had to find him, which meant coming back to Florida. He’d always been close with his ex-stepdad, Toby, the one who’d gotten Tig into Brighton in the first place. I’d gone by Vintage Wheels and asked about a fictitious classic-car-themed Christmas present for my equally fictitious husband. As Toby and I had chatted, I’d mentioned, offhand, that I used to know Tig. I’d made it sound like I knew him from Downtown, not school. Toby’d told me Tig was doing great, living an hour and change away in Mobile. He’d started his own business, another classic-car garage and parts yard. Restoration, it was called.

I got into my car and headed straight for Mobile, but I turned back before I even breached Pensacola city limits. I tried again the next day. And then again, days leaking into weeks, then months. I got the job at Divers Down to cover rent and food, driving toward Mobile a couple of times a week, inching a mile or two closer, then turning back. It was like a failed game of Mother May I?, though I knew damn well what my own mother would say.

That day I was sitting in the empty dive shop considering going back to my empty life in California. There at least I could blame my cowardice and inaction on the distance. But when I saw Charlotte’s face peeking in the door, young and round and earnest, cheeks pinked with the embarrassment of admitting her fear of the ocean, I’d thought, Here. Here is a small, good thing that I can do today.

I’d signed her up with no presentiment that my life was already shifting. In a few short months, Char would become my closest friend. I owed her so much, and not only because she was Char. She had led me to Maddy, who led to Davis, and now Oliver. She had gifted me with my whole sweet second life here.

Now she came bustling into the kitchen, pushing Ruby in her stroller with the little pooch of her new pregnancy wagging before her. A toddler, a baby on the way, and what the hell was Phillip Baxter thinking? Not that I was completely surprised. I had never been fond of Charlotte’s smug little husband. He took her so for granted. Davis called him “the Vegetables”—something I had to dutifully eat if I wanted lovely Charlotte on my plate.

I started to apologize, but she waved it away.

“I figured you were a little bit hungover? And oh, my God, when did she get out of your house!” she said, in lieu of hello. There was no question who “she” was.

“Wee hours,” I said.

“That bitch,” Char said, no hesitation, though she only mouthed the second word in deference to the babies. Still, my eyes widened. Char, in a temper, said things like “rats” and “phooey.”

Ruby was already unclicking her stroller belt, saying, “Eh-mo! Eh-mo!” and opening and closing her hands at the TV. She usually got to watch a Sesame Street when Char hung out in my kitchen.

“Roux wasn’t even the last one to leave. The rest of us had to wait for Tate to finish puking,” I said, lifting Ruby over the baby gate.

“Hi-ho, Obbiber,” Ruby said.

“And whose fault was that?” Char said, getting the remote off my counter and firing up the keeping-room TV. “Red or white, red or white, like it was her house. Like she was the hostess. What happened after I left?”

I found myself telling her about Roux’s game, because she was Charlotte, and for seven years now I had told Charlotte almost, almost everything.

Char said, “I bet Tate won every round. She’s so competitive, and she hasn’t got the good sense God gave little fishes. She’d confess anything. Did you play?”

It was a casual question, but the words were tinged in green. Char must have felt how interested I’d been in Roux before it all went bad.

“Hell no,” I said staunchly, though I mouthed the first word. Ruby was singing along with the Muppets, waving her stuffed lamb at Oliver, but she was notoriously bat-eared and of an age to repeat every single thing she heard. “I stood by my stairs drinking too much gin and trying to look poisonous enough to make them leave.”

She laughed, reassured. “I can guess how well that worked. Honestly, it’s the stupidest game I ever heard of. I don’t want to know the worst thing every neighbor ever did, or even the worst thing they did last month. How far did they get? Did anyone give up something super juicy?”

“Not far. They were all so drunk,” I said. I didn’t much want to talk about the actual confessions. That road led right to Tate Bonasco and Phillip at the Back-to-School barbecue. “I missed most of it. I was upstairs with you, evacuating Mads from that front-lawn flirt session.”

“Oh, yeah! That kid Luca? Trouble. And I would say that even if I hadn’t met his awful mother. He’s way too cute,” Char said. “But I wouldn’t worry. He’ll find his own crowd, and it’s not going to be the honor-roll kids in marching band.”

“That’s what I thought, but then he gave Mads a ride to school this morning.” Char’s mouth popped open, and before she could ask if Davis and I had lost our minds, I explained, “Mads played me. I assumed ‘a ride’ meant Shannon’s mom. But no, she went roaring off in his completely inappropriate red sports car.”

“That’s not his. That’s Roux’s. Or anyway it’s the only car I’ve ever seen in their driveway. It’s brand-new, like this year’s model.” Char paused, sniffing the air. “Are you baking?”

Char had struggled with food issues as a teen, and I’d said enough for her to understand that I had, too. She knew I didn’t keep sweets in the house.

“Blondies. For Roux,” I said. I wasn’t going to lie to her about minutiae. Her eyes widened. “I printed her out a copy of our neighborhood directory, too. When I drop it off, I’ll very casually mention that most of the moms with teenagers go to bunco instead of book club.”

Char laughed then. “That’s brilliant. Pawn her off on them!”

The doorbell rang. Char looked a question at me, but I wasn’t expecting anyone. I shrugged, eyes too wide, because I knew that it was Roux. Had to be. Come back to finish her damn game, and this time with Charlotte as a witness.

“Watch the littlies?” I asked Char.

I turned away so she wouldn’t see how plastic my smile had gone. I went through the swinging door to the long hall, with its wide arches to the formal living room and dining room on either side. The walk to the front door at the end took about a thousand years.

It was only Tate Bonasco. She was actually the second-to-last neighbor I wanted to see this morning. Still, my breath puffed out with relief, and only then did I realize I’d been holding it. Tate had a white bakery box from Publix, and she was smiling so wide that all her teeth were showing.

“Hey, Tate,” I heard myself saying, as if this were perfectly normal. It wasn’t. I could count on my thumbs the times Tate had dropped by to see me all impromptu. Hell, I could count them on my wings—it had never happened.

“Hi,” she said, drawing the H out long. “Can I come in? Do you have a sec?”

As she spoke, she ran her free hand down her glossy ponytail, smoothing it. It did not need smoothing.

“Oh, I’m—” I said, and faltered, turning and gesturing behind me, supremely conscious of Char, right down the hall, through that flimsy swinging door. Tate took it as permission, ducking past me into the house. Before she could start talking, I called out, very loud, “Charlotte, Tate’s here! Can you check the blondies for me?”

At Char’s name Tate paused, her gaze flying to meet mine. Her cheeks flushed, deep and red and confessional.

I turned toward the kitchen, washed in a whole-body discomfort, but Tate grabbed my arm.

“Did you say anything?” she whispered, gaze flicking from one of my eyes to the other, searching. She must have found her answer, because she blew her breath out and nodded. “Please don’t. It was just a kiss. A little drunken kiss.” When I didn’t respond, she tightened her grasp and changed tacks. “You could really mess her marriage up.”

“Could mess yours up pretty good, too, huh,” I said, quiet but not so quiet that she couldn’t hear the acid in my tone. She had the grace to drop her gaze.

“Please,” she said. “It was nothing.”

I looked away. Last night it had sure as hell sounded like more than a sloppy smear of lip on lip. Tate had been implying something truly juicy, but she’d backpedaled in the wake of Panda’s shock and Lavonda’s disapproval. If they had leaned in, smiling and dirty-interested, she might have had more to tell.

But “might” was a big word. And damn Tate Bonasco for putting me in this position anyhow. She had me whispering in the hall, behind my best friend’s back. I had to do the right thing for Char, with no idea what the right thing was. I didn’t want to hurt Char, but if it was more than a kiss, she needed to know.

What if telling wrecks our friendship?

The thought rose unbidden, but it was a valid question. Women in denial shoved at people who told them truths they were not ready to hear. Shoved them hard, all the way out of their lives.

Then I was ashamed. I had to do what was good and right for Charlotte, even if it boomeranged on me.

“I don’t want Char to hear it elsewhere,” I said.

“Panda and Lavonda won’t gossip about me,” Tate said. “I’m going to go make nice with Roux, but even if she does talk, she thinks it was some stranger at the car place. They all do. I’ll never tell a soul that it was . . .” She paused and then jerked her thumb toward the kitchen, indicating Char.