George Blakeman had spent the bulk of his career achieving modest to no success as a stockbroker, a true beneficiary of the old boy network. He ultimately gave up the pretense of managing anyone’s money, especially theirs, when he was forced out of the firm—by his Pomfret roommate, no less—after a few questionable trades. (At least questionable to his clients, who didn’t know they were happening at all.) He turned his sights and their fortune to professional bridge, a game for which he had a knack and now endless hours of time. But the drip, drip, dripping away of their wealth started long before George left finance because of his terrible investments, and it accelerated with his gold watch and sad send-off party.

The prospect of them living on Abigail’s salary was laughable. She’d spent twenty years as the warm, cheery, and underpaid director of development at the Silliman School, an expensive private high school known for its low expectations and pottery program housed on the former estate of the heiress Cecelia Silliman. The main building was an English Tudor gem with, sadly, no water view. The school was a way station for C students, weirdos, and second sons and daughters who’d been booted from legit prep schools. The parents loved Abigail and gave generously because she took the time to get to know their offspring and could say to them at school events, “Benton is so gifted in ceramics,” or “Layla makes everyone smile all the time.” True statements that reassured his parents that Benton, who had very few friends and smelled like cheese, was good at something. Or that Layla, who’d been goth since the second grade, was totally likable despite the tongue stud. That’s all parents wanted, a sense that their Bentons and Laylas would one day be fine. They wrote checks to Abigail because she filled them with reassurance.

But when Silliman’s beloved headmaster retired and the board, headed by a tedious tech zillionaire, went all in on academics and hired a STEM-focused head of school, Abigail found herself in over her head. They wanted her to run capital campaigns, network with the high-net-worths, and even apply for grants. It was all too much. She returned to her beautiful office filled with antiques and hand-woven rugs after the Christmas holidays prepared to give notice for her departure at the end of the school year. She’d give the parent community enough time to organize a gracious retirement event and maybe a scholarship in her name. But by noon on the first day back, she was informed that her services were no longer needed and by that Friday, she was gone from Silliman. Barely even an acknowledgment for twenty years of service, except the flower arrangement sent by the Wiggins family, whose four Silliman graduates had a long history of poor test scores, underbites, and plenty of import-export money.