A leggy woman in a silk minidress with dirt on her knees, a basket full of produce, and a filterless Lucky Strike clasped between her teeth was barking at me from across the parking lot. Huge sunglasses obscured her face, a faded Chicago Bulls baseball cap pinned her brown hair back, and gardening gloves covered her hand tattoos, but I’d have known Max de Lacy from behind a brick wall.

“You crazy fucking bitch,” Max screamed. “I heard you came up here. But nobody, I mean nobody has seen you. I mean, you’re a ghost. I cannot believe about your loft. That’s so awful.” She hugged me and I responded limply.

“I’m at Pine City,” I said casually, as though I came up here all the time. “I’ve only been here a week or two.”

“You’re going to love it,” she said. “It’s magical.”

“It’s great so far,” I agreed. A lie.

“Well, I’m glad we ran into each other. I’ve been calling. You don’t answer emails anymore. You’re never online.”

“I’ve never been online,” I told her.

“I keep thinking you’re going to change your mind.”

“Definitely not.”

“Well. You can’t hide. Not now that I’ve found you.” Max was victorious.

“I guess so.” I almost smiled. “Where are you staying?” I asked.

Max’s eyes went wide. “We’re right across the lake?” she said, a question, a reminder, but graciously, which is when I turned beet red.

“Oh, right,” I said lamely. “I knew that.”

Everyone knew where Eliot House was—at least, everybody who was anybody. Despite the gaffe, I did know quite a few things about the rust-and-concrete modernist behemoth cut into the hill seven years ago by Max’s new husband, Charles Eliot, and his business partner and former spouse, Helen Sprain. Originally designed to showcase artwork from the vast holdings of their gallery, Eliot&Sprain, in a controlled environment, the “smart house” had been completely integrated with the first fully functional home-assist computer—and the interiors were designed by Carey Logan.

I’d never been invited there, either. The moment hung awkwardly between us—this special world, this famous country house she lived in, the hospitality that she had extended to everyone but me.

I looked at the limp bundle of tulips in my hand, which seemed so important earlier, and thought about the glassy corner of Prudence where I had longed to press their petals. Now it seemed suddenly pointless, almost dumb. Max had blown the urge right out the window of my mind.

I had to get away from her.

“I’m working. I have to get back,” I said.

She handed me her phone, and I typed in the number from the landline in my bungalow kitchen. Max wrapped her arms around me and hugged me again.

“I’ve missed you,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re finally here.”