Juliet was a good-enough sister, though we didn’t have much in common. I loved her daughters and always had fun with them, but less was more in that respect. You couldn’t be the cool auntie if you were around all the time. My mother was very . . . competent. But I had never met my Minnesotan relatives; Mom didn’t get on with anyone except Aunt Nancy, and Dad was an only child. So as family went, Dad was kind of it for me. Dad, and Alexander, and I missed them both so much. Missed my life in New York fiercely.

But Alexander was coming to visit this weekend, thank God, and Carter had broken his vow never to leave the five boroughs and was coming up tonight for Mom’s dinner party, though he’d booked an Airbnb after I FaceTimed him from my house.

It was so quiet here. Quieter in this little house than my parents’, where there was always some kind of noise—cars, neighbors, the distant thump of music from the restaurants on Water Street, just two blocks away. Stoningham always had some event on the weekends—the library fund-raiser, a Presidents’ Day trivia contest at the library, storytelling night and open mic night at the local bar. To its credit, Stoningham tried very hard not to be a summertime-only seaside town.

I hadn’t realized how much my mother did. When she had run for first selectman, I thought it was cute, and pictured her sitting on a panel, fielding questions from disgruntled residents. Now I knew she worked with the state government, figured out how any federal and state budget cuts would affect Stoningham, built partnerships with the business community, tried to woo the kind of industry to town that would be green, clean and employ locals . . . and yes, handled complaints from disgruntled residents.

I felt a little bad that Dad and I had made some jokes about her being the queen of Stoningham.

And now she was having a dinner party, to which I was invited. The first time I’d be my mother’s guest at something other than a family event. It felt kind of strange. Alexander was due in this afternoon . . . March was a busy time for him—all those rich folks getting itchy for summers on the Vineyard or Penobscot Bay or in San Diego. Many yachts to sell. We’d only seen each other three times since I moved back here—two quick runs back to the city for me, and once, dinner in New Haven. But he was coming tonight, staying all weekend, and I couldn’t wait.

To show how strange life had become, I found myself looking forward to going to Mom’s. It was the highlight of my social life since coming home.