Our Lady of Everlasting Deodorant, I prayed, please watch over me.

“I was in Moldova thirty-six hours ago,” I said as she gave me a dry kiss on the cheek. “And I’m waiting for some of these women in feathers to shed. Then I’ll put something in my hair.”

My father flung open his arms. “Look who the cat dragged in!” This was a familiar greeting—half surprised pleasure, half where have you been young lady? J.P.’s interpretation of the theme included a newsboy cap and suspenders, both of which I suspected were from his own closet.

“You were supposed to get here Wednesday!” Hope scolded. “I had a whole thing planned! Archer and I were going to throw ticker tape from the top windows of the house as you pulled up. Weren’t we, Archer?”

I turned to my brother. “Ticker tape? That would’ve been an ordeal.”

“I told HCG that you’d hate it. Complain about it blinding the sea turtles, or whatever. But we know better than to plan around you.” There was a quick humorous glance between everyone who wasn’t named Cass; it made me feel like an outsider. But I’d long ago come to peace with the sacrifices of my profession and promised myself never to apologize for it, for what was required of me. I would not be an I’m the worst woman, even though, kind of, I was.

Kent, Susie’s longtime house manager and The Land’s chief of staff, appeared with four sunset-colored drinks on a silver tray. “Who needs a spritz?” he asked, peering over his glasses. His expression was perpetually professional, his white polo starched, always, to paperlike crispness.

“Does a goose go barefoot?” said J.P., helping himself.

“Is the Pope Catholic?” Archer took the one that was the fullest.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” I asked, which made Hope snort into her drink.

Kent handed Hope a napkin. “Welcome home, Cass,” he said, tucking the tray under his arm. “You’ve been missed.”

Home, he’d said. The Land wasn’t my home. Not anymore. Home was in New York City, on Avenue A, in the apartment I barely used more than a week at a time. I had grand plans for it, like maybe I’d do some decorating, hang some of my pictures, dig out from storage the sculpture Granny Fi had bequeathed to me, get a throw pillow. Eliminate the flophouse vibe. Maybe soon I’d invest in a real bedframe. Eventually I’d use the stove. But what point was there in correcting him? I’d just hurt my parents’ feelings. So I said, “Thank you,” and began to inquire about Kent’s family, but he winked and slipped back into the crowd.