Before Grace could gauge how egregious getting a publicist for her garden might seem to these women, her thoughts were interrupted.

“Grace, hi!” a loud female voice said. “Hi, hi, hi, hi! I can’t believe you two are here.”

Grace turned to see Sharon Rhodes, otherwise known as Blond Sharon. Sharon Rhodes was nearly six feet tall, and she had aggressively dyed blond hair. She had a wide mouth with crowded teeth and a big, hearty, infectious laugh, which was her best feature. She was the loudest person in any room and was therefore always the center of attention. Tonight she stood out, as usual, in a poppy-red strapless blouse, tight white pants, and five-inch stiletto heels that were going to decimate Jean Burton’s gorgeous lawn.

Flats, Grace thought. One wore flats to the Sunset Soiree for this very reason.

“Hi, Sharon,” Grace said. She leaned in for an air kiss. “It’s nice to see you.”

Blond Sharon regarded Benton with undisguised interest. “I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Sharon Rhodes.”

“Nice to meet you, Sharon Rhodes,” Benton said, taking her hand.

“I’ve heard about your work, of course,” Blond Sharon said. “And didn’t you used to live with Katharine McGovern?”

“McGuvvy,” Benton said. “Yes. Great girl. We’ve parted ways, but I hear she’s very happy…”

“In San Diego!” Blond Sharon said. “She taught my children sailing at the yacht club last summer.” Blond Sharon winked at Benton. “I think she was hoping you two would get married.”

“It didn’t work out that way, unfortunately,” Benton said. “Wasn’t in the cards.”

Blond Sharon nodded, then looked between Grace and Benton as if trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“Benton is consulting with me on my garden,” Grace said. “He’s got the magic touch. You should see my roses.”

“I would like to see your roses,” Blond Sharon said, “but you never invite me.”

Grace smiled. She felt like she was the only person left on earth who cared about manners. God bless her grandmother Sabine and the Sundays Grace spent learning how to properly butter her bread. “You’re invited any time,” she told Blond Sharon.

Blond Sharon laughed as if this were the funniest thing she’d ever heard. It was pretty funny. If Blond Sharon showed up at Grace’s house unannounced to take a gander at Grace’s roses, Grace would pretend to be down with a migraine. She would be grateful for the massive oak door separating her from Blond Sharon’s curiosity. Her home was a fortress, and Blond Sharon wasn’t welcome. Grace didn’t think Blond Sharon was a bad person. She was just too obvious for Grace. Her clothes were too flashy, her heels too high; her laugh was too loud. Madeline felt the same way. If Madeline were here, they would talk about Blond Sharon the instant she stepped away.

As if reading her mind, Blond Sharon said, “So, Grace, have you heard about Madeline’s new book? I guess Rachel McMann got to read some of it the other day.”

“I know she’s been hard at work,” Grace said. She smiled at Benton. “Shall we repair to the garden?”

“Yes,” Benton said in his Surrey accent. “Let’s repair.”

“You should ask Madeline about it!” Blond Sharon sang out.

“I’ll do that,” Grace agreed. She linked her arm through Benton’s. “Good to see you.”

Grace and Benton strolled along, admiring Jean Burton’s beds, all of which were bordered with impatiens.

“Oh, impatiens,” Benton whispered.

Grace squeezed his arm. She and Benton held the same opinion about impatiens. Tired and overdone.

They walked over to the first koi pond and watched the orange fish swim in lazy circles. Grace felt the same way about koi in ponds as she felt about tigers and lions in cages at the zoo.

“So, McGuvvy wanted to marry you?” Grace said.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Benton said. He stared at the surface of the water.

“You can tell me,” Grace said. “I won’t get jealous.” This was a lie. Grace was already feeling jealous. The instant Blond Sharon said the name Katharine McGovern, the hair on her arms stood on end and her heart grew spikes. Grace knew that Benton and McGuvvy had lived together the previous summer. Grace had even met McGuvvy once, when she and Eddie and Madeline and Trevor were out to dinner at Le Languedoc. The Panciks and Llewellyns had been devouring their cheeseburgers and garlic fries at the bistro downstairs when Benton had walked in with a young woman. Grace had remembered feeling extremely interested. She wanted to get a gander at this curiously named woman.

My girlfriend, McGuvvy, was how Benton had referred to her last summer.

McGuvvy: it was the name of an elf, or a gremlin.

Benton had brought McGuvvy over to the table and introduced her. “Everyone, this is McGuvvy.”

McGuvvy was what people meant when they used the phrase “girl next door.” Her hair was auburn, she had freckles and glasses with black frames. She wore a white blouse with black embroidery over white pants, and black Jack Rogers sandals. Toenails painted turquoise. Was she pretty? Grace couldn’t decide. She was pretty enough, and she was young. She seemed spirited, gung ho, ready for anything. She was probably lots of fun to be with. Grace knew only two things about her: she taught sailing at the Nantucket Yacht Club, and she did not care for gardening at all. When Grace had asked how that was working out, Benton said, “Fine, fine. We have different interests, no biggie.”