“Too late.” Miss Sorrel fanned the air with an open hand. “My sensibilities have already been”—she paused for a moment as a white compact car pulled up in front of the house, its front fender dented and trunk lid held down with a bungee cord—“assaulted.”

The car sat there for a few moments, its engine wheezing before it shut down. The woman who climbed out wore tight jeans, a V-neck flowered T-shirt, and sunglasses. The getup said eighteen but the face said closing on thirty. With a practiced gesture she tossed back long dark hair that hung past her shoulders, leaned on the open car door, and gazed across at the house. At Lis and Miss Sorrel watching her from the porch.

“She’s early, dammit,” Miss Sorrel said under her breath as she levered herself from the chair and waved. “Evelyn’s not even here.” Evelyn Dumont lived in the grand pink house next door on a big corner lot. The house had wide verandas in front on both floors, and narrow third-floor windows that seemed to peer out from below the eaves. Evelyn and Miss Sorrel had been making and repairing dolls together since before Lis could remember. Girlhood friends who were both now widowed, as they’d aged they’d grown more or less attached at the hip.

“Miss Richards? Hello there,” Miss Sorrel warbled as she gestured to Lis to get rid of the sandwich platter. She adjusted the scarf around her neck. “Come right on up.”

The woman, who looked far too unfinished to be Miss anything, reached into the backseat. She pulled a paper shopping bag and a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup from her car, straightened, and bumped the door closed with her hip. She tugged down her top, which had ridden up, exposing a roll of flesh bunched over low-riding jeans.

Miss Sorrel’s typical clients were older women who arrived in church clothes, their injured or simply aging dolls swaddled in blankets or packed in boxes with tissue paper. Not this one. She was swinging that bag, oblivious to the coffee that was dribbling onto it from the cup as she climbed the steps to the porch. As Miss Richards approached the steps, Lis could tell the moment when her mother could actually see her because that’s when her expression soured from welcoming to eau de manure. And then, because of her excellent manners, her mother turned up the corners of her mouth in a bright smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Lis knew what was coming next. She went inside and sponged down the kitchen table. Then she lay down a yellow swaddle blanket and a fresh pair of purple latex gloves for her mother to wear when she examined the doll.