“School’s out at three-thirteen. I can come then.”

Burke dropped me off that afternoon in his rusty Chevrolet pickup. He sucked the butt of his Marlboro Red before flicking it out the window, onto Libby’s spotless front yard.

“Burke.” I gave him a look.

“What, Bones?” He grinned, dimples appearing on either cheek, and pulled me in for a tobacco-flavored kiss.

I climbed out of the Chevy and walked toward the house, where a flaxen-haired young woman was standing behind the front screen door, arms folded. She’d been watching us, and I felt my cheeks burn crimson.

“Hi,” I managed, stepping up to the porch. “I’m sorry about that.”

She opened the door and walked past me, across the driveway to the place on the lawn where Burke had littered the butt. She picked it up. I knew I was bright red.

“Heather. Do you smoke?” She stood in front of me, tall and willowy.

“I don’t,” I lied.

“Who’s the guy?”

“My boyfriend, Burke.”

“I’m not a hard-ass, but I can’t have smoke around my kids.”

“I’m really sorry. I’ll try to drive myself next time, if the car’s available. Or I’ll have someone else drop me.”

“We can always pick you up.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Fontaine.”

“Call me Libby.” She swung the screen door open, an invitation.

The house wasn’t big—no houses in Langs Valley are—but it was the nicest one I’d ever stepped inside. The wood floors were polished and all the furniture was white or a pale wood, and the walls were painted soothing hues of ivory and sea-foam green. My eyes lingered on a sterling-silver-framed photograph of Libby in a stunning white dress and lace veil next to a handsome man, their smiles bleached and radiant.

I cringe now, thinking about the way I must’ve looked to Libby that first afternoon—the epitome of white trash with my nose ring and diamond-studded jeans and ashy-blond hair.

“The playroom is back this way.” She smiled at me warmly, as if I didn’t look completely out of place in her idyllic home. Closer to her now, I studied the details of her face: impossibly high cheekbones, wide-set eyes the color of caramel, those thick, arching eyebrows. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and had only simple diamond studs in her ears. Back then I couldn’t have defined what it meant to be classically beautiful or well-bred, but I instantly knew Libby Fontaine was both of those things.

Libby led me through the refurbished kitchen and small dining area toward the back of the house. Glass vases of fresh flowers were on nearly every surface.

“You just moved here? I don’t see a single box. Your house is gorgeous.” I felt the urge to compliment her––maybe because of Burke, or maybe because it really was the most beautiful home I’d ever seen.

“Ten days ago. I’m too much of a neat freak to have unpacked boxes lying around.” Libby laughed. “Weird, I know.”

“Not at all. I’m impressed.”

“We have a lot on the walls, which helps. I made my husband hang everything the first night.” She gestured to the walls. “He’s an artist.”

“Wow. It’s stunning.” I glanced around, studying the decor. That was what made the house look so complete, I realized––the dozens of exquisite pieces of framed artwork. I thought of the walls in my own house––was there even anything on them? A stag head of my father’s mounted above the tiny fireplace. That was all that came to mind.

“It’s not all his, of course.” Libby laughed again. “That would be tacky. But we’re lucky that we have a nice collection.”

In the playroom, a small towheaded boy sat in the middle of the carpeted floor, surrounded by at least a dozen toy trucks.

“Nate, this is Heather.”

“Hey, Mama,” he said without looking up.

“He’s obsessed with trucks,” Libby whispered to me. “Literally, eighty-five percent of the time, this is my son, sitting on the floor with his trucks. For four, he’s pretty easy.”

I smiled, crouching down to the boy’s level. He was just slightly bigger than Gus. “Hi, Nate. I’m Heather. I’m going to be your babysitter.”

“Hi.” He looked up at me and blinked. His eyes were the same coppery color as his mother’s, with the same thick, dark lashes.

“And my baby girl is napping. She should be up in an hour or so.”

“Cool.” I nodded. I was slightly nervous about caring for an infant—I had no doubt Libby was a vastly more overprotective parental figure than any I was used to—but for fifteen dollars an hour I would figure it out. I was good at figuring things out, if I had to. “What time will you be back?”

“Oh, I’m hanging here today. I just wanted you to come over and get the lay of the land. I’ll still pay you, of course. I thought we could hang in the kitchen and chat until the baby wakes up. I can make tea? Or I have juice. I don’t have any soda.”

“Tea is perfect,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure I’d ever had a cup of tea. I followed her into the kitchen. “Thanks.”

“In all honesty I’m starved for company,” Libby confessed as she filled the kettle with tap water. “We moved from Connecticut. I don’t know a soul here.”

I slid onto one of the white ladder-back stools and watched her move gracefully from cabinet to cabinet. She wore a loose button-down shirt—maybe her husband’s—but the top buttons were undone and I could see her thin, sinewy frame, the concave of her clavicle—a body not unlike my own. It was the reason Burke’s nickname for me was Bones.

A weighty diamond—far bigger than I’d ever seen in real life—sparkled on her left ring finger. The band was constructed of diamonds, too, I noticed when she came closer. Even her smell was expensive—like face cream that costs ninety dollars a jar. I’ve seen it in department stores.

“I don’t mean this the wrong way,” I started, feeling seduced by this woman, by her heavy scent, her sudden and mysterious presence in my monotonous world. I was suddenly overcome by the impulse to say exactly what I felt. “But why Langs Valley? Why did you move here?”

Libby turned, and I noticed a light sprinkling of freckles across her chest, her skin otherwise creamy and unblemished.

“My husband is doing a study on the northern Adirondack Mountains.” She blinked, and something unknowable flashed across her face. One corner of her mouth poked into a weak half smile. “A landscape series, which is a real pivot for him—his style is primarily abstract. It really is beautiful here, though. Quiet, but I think it will be a nice change of pace.”

“Quiet is for sure.” I nodded. “How long will the study take?”

“Who knows.” Libby flipped her palms up. “Some studies take several months, some take years. Peter wants to capture the mountains in all seasons, beginning with fall. He’s so talented, though. I know he’s going to be very successful one day.”

I nodded, dissecting the implications of her statement. Libby and Peter clearly had money; if her husband wasn’t successful yet, the money had to have other origins.

Libby turned back to the tea, and I watched, enamored by her every movement, as she dunked the bags in the boiling water to steep.

“So, Heather, tell me about you.” Pillows of steam rose into her pores. “What’s your story? What’s up with this boyfriend of yours, smoking those disgusting death sticks?”

My story.

The air in the room seemed to slow, and brighten. Something in the way she said boyfriend of yours told me someone such as Libby wouldn’t be caught dead with someone like Burke. It was also the first time I’d heard the term death sticks. In my world, cigarettes were a prerequisite. My friends and I smoked in the parking lot every day; once during lunch and once between seventh and eighth periods. When my father was home—which wasn’t often anymore—we shared a smoke after dinner.

I looked at Libby’s flawless skin and healthy glow and knew with clear conviction that I’d never smoke again. It’s strange, but sometimes a new perspective can click into place, and everything suddenly looks different. That night, I would go home and take out my nose ring and call Burke and tell him our relationship was over. I would put Gus to bed and flush my Parliaments down the toilet and do my algebra homework for the first time all semester. I would fall asleep thinking about the smell of Libby’s face cream and the art on her freshly painted walls.

As for my story—I didn’t have one yet, but I would soon.

Chapter Four

Skye