Ruthie Carroll’s home is not like Tom’s or the Benningtons’. In fact, it’s shabbier. I only get a quick glance at it as we’re ushered into the back garden by another woman, Shirley, who had hosted the remembrance ceremony at her apartment building. Shirley’s ample chested with silky hair and looks to be in her midthirties. The kitchen appliances are old, the stairs leading up to the second floor worn and mottled, the paintings on the wall dingy and boring, stuff you’d find in the bathroom of a kooky Ridgewood bar but without the irony. Page almost looks disappointed, her shoulders slumping the tiniest bit when she takes in her surroundings.

Ruthie greets us in the garden. “So glad you could make it!” she squeals, giving us both a hug. She’s petite, with springy brass curls, wears a white linen shirt and pants, and is barefoot. She can’t be more than thirty.

She guides us to a picnic table, a pitcher of sangria and many citronella candles dotting its surface. The other women are here, all three of them, and they introduce themselves. “Come, sit, sit. We all read A Little Life for this month, but since we have you all over, we’ll avoid that whole discussion.” Ruthie beams at us like we’re the hot fudge on her sundae, pours us some glasses and starts chattering about her Core Club class this morning.

I study these women, the ones with whom Odilie chose to spend her time. And I can feel them studying me, looks of confusion and contempt crossing their faces as Ruthie tries to talk her way out of the awkwardness. They’re suspicious of me and I don’t blame them. I resist the urge to stare them down, ignore them, make them feel insignificant and powerless. Instead, I try to fade into the background, sitting back in my chair, hunching my back a little, making myself smaller.

I learn that this is Ruthie’s parents’ house. That they now live full-time in Accord, New York, where they have a second home. That the whole place is hers now. She wants to remodel it, but just can’t find the time between work and dating. And she just can’t find the right decorator, the one who can make her granny-chic fantasies come to life. Shirley, the one who let us in, nods in commiseration.

“How did everyone meet?” Page butts in and I’m surprised by her forcefulness with these women, her ability to insert herself into the conversation. She’s been sneaking glances at me the entire time, so furtive and quick that they leave me unsteady. I can’t tell if she’s trying to make sure that I’m okay or if she wants reassurance about her own behavior.