Carol Anne tilted her head to the right and left, then whispered, “I know you, Ame. It’s Nick. Don’t think I don’t know these symptoms of yours. I saw them almost kill you one time. He knows, somehow knows, how to do this to you.”

“What?” Amy looked away from her friend, her conscience screaming her own stupidity.

“You saw him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Carol Anne. But not why you think. He’s helping the OWP. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“Great.”

“He could really make a difference—”

“Well, you’re coming with me now.”

“I’m busy . . . unpacking Christmas stuff.” Amy shuffled into the living room. Carol Anne followed. “See all this stuff? I can’t just leave it out like this. Phil will come home and put it in all the wrong places, wonder why I didn’t finish my job.”

Carol Anne leaned down, picked up the “World’s Best Mother” book, leafed through it.

“Isn’t it weird how they see us?” Amy asked.

“Who?”

“Our children. They have this vision of us, of how we are, and it revolves only and solely around them. I mean, look at this book—it doesn’t describe me, you know—me—at all. It just describes what I do for her—for the house, for the family.”

“That is you . . . to her.”

“But it isn’t me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It isn’t me at all. She forgot to mention that I have a degree in architectural history, that I love preserving the past, that . . . I am me.” Amy sighed. She wasn’t lying to Carol Anne about being tired.

“Preserving the past . . . you nailed it.”

God, she wished Carol Anne would leave. She’d never wanted this before, and the need to be away from her best friend shocked her. “I’m talking about buildings, architecture.”

“I’m just repeating what you said, that’s all.” Carol Anne picked up a red ornament, rolled it in her hand.

Amy groaned. “Can we do this another day? Maybe after Thanksgiving?”

“No.”

“You are being a major pain in the ass.”

“That is what I intend to be, because I love you. Now come on.”

“I’ll drive separate in case I need . . . to come home first.”

Amy walked through the living room into the kitchen. She folded a towel left crumpled on the counter by either Phil or Molly, then placed the towel neatly over the sink. She picked up the discarded junk mail no one else threw away and tossed it in the trash can. Did she have to do absolutely everything? It irritated her, the never-ending chores and the continuous picking up and the truth that only she did it all.