She didn’t actually miss the Pratts, she admitted to herself as she carefully backed the car around, but she did miss seeing their house at the very top of Red Top Hill where it once seemed to symbolize the simple, rugged way of life that was becoming increasingly rare, even in Maine. It was the kind of house a child might draw, a too-narrow rectangle topped with a triangular roof. The windows were rectangles, too, without shutters. The siding was weatherbeaten gray clapboard, and the white paint on the trim boards had peeled off long ago. There was no landscaping to speak of, no bushes softening the stark lines of the house, and no lawn at all. Just a dirt yard with a chicken pen and a rotting old car or two, kept for spare parts. It wasn’t a friendly house; it might as well have had a big “Keep Out” sign nailed to it. Which was just about right because the Pratts hadn’t been friendly people. They’d been horrible neighbors, mean and quarrelsome. They were gone now. Prudence had died, been murdered, actually, and her husband Calvin and son Wesley were in the county jail for stealing lobsters out of other people’s traps. All that remained of the Pratt family was the name of the street that now bisected their land. The developer, Fred Stanton, had named it Prudence Path.

She was starting down the driveway when she saw Fred’s wife, Mimi, marching along the road, headed their way. Only Zoe’s presence in the seat beside her kept her from saying a very bad word.

“Lucy, could I just have a quick word with you?” asked Mimi, bending to look into the car window. She was talking in that false, bright tone a lot of women use when they’re broaching an uncomfortable topic.

“Sure, Mimi. What’s up?”

“Well, Lucy, it’s really the same old thing,” sighed Mimi, adding a fleeting, tight little smile. “I’m afraid those bushes of yours are really a safety hazard. They block the sight lines on Prudence Path, you know. Why, just yesterday I was almost hit by a speeding truck when I was pulling out, on my way to work.”

“I don’t see how you can blame my lilacs for somebody going too fast on Red Top Road,” said Lucy.

“Well, of course, you are right. The truck was going way too fast. But the fact is that I couldn’t see the truck because of your bushes.” She smiled again and Lucy wondered if she’d had her teeth whitened or something. Maybe it was just a reflex, a nervous twitch. A tic. “I’ve spoken to you about this before, numerous times in fact, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to file a formal complaint.”