“Don’t you want to know what the termite man had to say?”

“I don’t give a fuck what he had to say!”

Rosemary stopped outside the blue cottage with the apricot tree, Mr. Z’s house. Mira slowed down and stopped as well, panting. She got off her bike and turned it so it faced downhill, in the ritualistic way they’d done for years.

“Wanna race?” Mira asked. No answer from Rosemary, who was busy gazing at the cottage from where they stood. There was a new-looking silver Ford Taurus in the carport; Mr. Z’s Nissan wasn’t there. The apricots were all gone, and the white dog was dozing, half-concealed by shrubbery.

“Hell-o?” Mira flapped her arms wildly. “Why are you staring at that house?”

The curtains in the blue cottage were partially open and they could see that the house was bathed in the warm glow of lamplight. The aroma of home cooking—roast chicken?—was in the air, full of warm, garlicky goodness. Somebody turned the chandelier on in what must have been the dining room. Rosemary caught a glimpse of her—a svelte Indian lady in a silk floral blouse, perhaps in her mid-thirties. She was carrying a small vase of roses, and they looked fresh; she leaned forward to put them down on the dining table. Rosemary couldn’t see if she wore a ring but had to assume that this woman was Mrs. Z. She hadn’t expected Mr. Z’s wife to be anything but a generic white girl who’d loaf around in an old college sweatshirt and elastic-waist pants as soon as she got home from work, yet here she was—Mrs. Z. Elegant, exotic, gorgeous. Her hips got to meet his, night after night after night. This was the woman he chose.

Mira tinkled the bell on her bike several times.

“Shut up! What are you doing?” Rosemary shot daggers at her.

“I’ve been talking at you for, like, five minutes . . . You’re scaring me. Why are you acting like some Peeping Tom?”

“I think it’s a really cool house.” Rosemary sounded a little wistful.

“We’ve been by here like a million times, and you never even noticed it before.”

“Yes, I have.”

“No, you so haven’t. So . . . do you want to race or not?”

“Not.”

“God, then why did you even come here?”

Rosemary got back on her bike dully.

“Where are you going now?” asked Mira. “I want to tell you my termite plan.”

“Stop tailing me!” Rosemary rode downhill for a block, then swiftly swerved left and sped along one of the tree-lined cross streets that would take her east, toward the Armenian neighborhood.

Mira felt intensely alone. She looked at the blue cottage. Her sister was right—it was cool. It was perfect. She wanted to live there. The dinner smells made her stomach rumble. Buttery mashed potatoes. Roast chicken. Love and protein.