She didn’t understand then, but she did now. She understood now that she’d loved him, and he was probably the only man she’d ever loved like that, with such hope. She understood now that she would always have left Bascom, whether or not it was with him. She understood now that he hadn’t been able to accept her for what she was. She understood that part best of all, because even she hadn’t been able to do that.

There was a small, remembered thrill to being somewhere she knew she really shouldn’t be as Claire pulled around to the service entrance and they entered the kitchen. She shouldn’t have come, but she couldn’t help herself. Maybe it was the challenge, the way it used to be a challenge to sneak around boyfriends’ houses while they were at work, stealing money from their secret hiding places before she left town. She was going to steal something here too. She was going to take memories that didn’t belong to her anymore. And why was she doing it? Because the best time in her adolescence, her best memories of Bascom, were when she dated the biggest catch in town. Everyone had admired her. Everyone had accepted her. She needed those good memories, needed them more than the Mattesons did. They probably wouldn’t even miss them. They probably forgot who she was a long time ago.

The housekeeper met them and introduced herself as Joanne. She was in her forties, and her black hair was so shiny and straight that it barely moved, which meant she hated mistakes.

“The flowers have already been delivered. I was told to wait to arrange them until you arrived,” Joanne said. “When you finish unloading, I’ll be on the patio. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes,” Sydney said importantly as Joanne disappeared through the swinging door of the butler’s pantry. “I liked Myrtle better.”

“Who is Myrtle?” Claire asked.

“The old housekeeper.”

“Oh” was all Claire said.

As soon as everything was in and the necessary things refrigerated, Sydney led Claire through the house to the patio. Mrs. Matteson had been proud of her antiques, which was why Sydney was surprised to find the house now was just so…pink. There was rose damask wallpaper in the dining room, and the chairs at the long dining-room table had pale-pink upholstery. The family room opened out of the dining room, and it was a riot of pink florals on the couch cushions and rugs.

The extensive patio was to the right, through a set of open French doors. A warm summer breeze glided in, carrying the scent of roses and chlorine. When they walked out, Sydney saw that there were round cast-iron tables and chairs set up around the pool, and an elaborate bar had been erected in a corner. The longer tables for the food were skirting the walls, and that’s where Joanne was standing, surrounded by empty vases and buckets of flowers.

Claire went to Joanne, but Sydney couldn’t move. She felt light-headed. It was just the fantasy of it all—the white linens on the buffet tables flapping in the wind, the lights in the pool sending watery shadows over the area, the starlights in the shrubbery. She wanted this so much when she was young, this prosperity, this dream. Standing there, she could remember so clearly what it felt like to be a part of it, to be a part of something, to know she belonged somewhere.