Lane’s cell phone rang. Her mother. They were late and her family would be angry. That should’ve been what scared her most—but it wasn’t. Ignoring the call, Lane stepped into her house and, for the first time since she could remember, bolted the lock.

FIVE

LANE PAUSED ON THE VERANDA of her parents’ sprawling estate in Walton East. The black iron of the gas lamps contrasted sharply with the white siding. Blooming lobelias draped from baskets hanging off the eaves and gave the palatial home a genteel impression, but to Lane the home she grew up in was merely proof the Sullivans were a family of distinction first; gentility came later—if at all.

The smell of something sweet greeted Lane and Noah once they stepped inside the home. No one came to greet her at the door. Why would they? She wasn’t a guest; she was family. Lane swallowed. Why didn’t it feel that way?

“Gigi!” Noah squealed, running into the grand foyer.

“Noah!” Lane called after him. “Your shoes.”

Noah skidded to a stop and ran back. He plopped himself on the ground and pulled off his shoes and socks. “Now?”

“Kiss.” Lane pointed to her cheek. He obliged and sprinted down the polished hardwood hall at full speed, dinosaurs in tow. She touched her cheek, wishing she shared Noah’s enthusiasm to charge forward, fearless.

“I didn’t think you were going to show up,” Lane’s mother, Elise Sullivan, said as soon as Lane made her way into the kitchen.

“Sorry I missed the ceremony.” After Charlie left, Noah insisted he had to have a glass of apple juice, which he spilled all over his clothes and hers. By the time she cleaned themselves up and wiped the floor, the ceremony was over. Lane held up a basket filled with loaves of banana bread. Baking had become her go-to when sleep evaded her, and by the time Ms. Byrdie had opened up the shop this morning, almost two dozen loaves were cooling on racks. “I made these for everyone.”

The timer on the oven went off and her mother grabbed a pair of oven mitts and pulled out a fresh cobbler. After setting it down on the giant granite island, she tapped her finger gently against the golden crust. It looked perfect, but Lane knew it could never compare to Ms. Byrdie’s.

“Smells good,” Lane tried again.

“Go tell everyone lunch is ready.”

Lane sighed as she took in her mother. Her sable, shoulder-length hair was pulled into a low ponytail. Makeup perfectly applied. A colorful apron covered a vibrant coral blouse and white linen pants. She was the epitome of a southern debutante. And a debutante never engaged in quarreling, though they made sure to express their displeasure in other ways, verbal or not.