“You look lost.”

Amy leaned back against the bleacher. “I’m tired . . . just tired.”

“You haven’t returned my phone calls in a week, my dearest friend. Is there something you’re mad at me about? Maybe that I’m funnier, cuter and smarter than you—has the envy finally overcome you?”

Amy laughed. It felt good. “I’m sorry. Really. I’ve been crazy busy with—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“You doing okay?” Amy turned her full attention to her friend.

“I’m fine, luckily, since I could’ve been dying of a terminal illness and you wouldn’t have known. I’m just so sick of Farley I could puke.”

A woman with too-red lipstick turned and put her finger to her lips, made a hushing sound. Amy scrunched her nose at the woman, leaned in to whisper to Carol Anne, “Let’s go outside. Molly won’t play for another half hour. This match is in overtime.”

They walked out into sunlight that looked faded and tired, as though someone had run it through the washing machine too many times. Amy turned to her friend, then leaned against the concrete wall of the tennis complex.

She was as frustrated with Carol Anne’s boss as if he were her own. Mr. Farley was the epitome of the small-town businessman who used his family name in such a manner that his ancestors probably crawled deeper into their Darby graves. He was a vast and flamboyant man and he also owned the largest interior design firm in the city—and the only one, because of undue influence from his uncle, the mayor, who would not allow commercial space to be rented to a competitor.

“Carol Anne, just leave.”

“I already told you I can’t. We can’t afford it until Joe’s law firm gets more established, whatever that vague concept means. You just wouldn’t believe what Farley had me do this time.” Carol Anne groaned and looked up to the sky. “He had me decorate an entire house from the paint chip of the customer’s antique Rolls-Royce. I had to match the paint, wallpaper, fabric to a damn car paint chip. Lord Almighty. Now, get this—Southern Decorating is doing a piece on the house and I don’t even get a bit of credit. Nothing.”

“If you’re that miserable, leave.”

“It’s not that simple. There are a lot of things to put on the scale.”

“I know, I know: Joe, the money, no clients, no work—yeah, you told me. Have you talked to Joe about it?”

“No.”

“Talk to him. I bet he’ll be on your side with this one. At least your husband listens to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Amy waved her hand toward the parking lot.

“Well, enough Farley melodrama. Tell me everything.”

“About what?”

“The lake.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that.”