Alice’s house, however, was still covered top to bottom in her giant, plastic Christmas decorations which she refused to take down or change.

“Natalia’s bringing you tomatoes, by the way,” I said, hefting the carton of oranges down onto the stoop. I grabbed a handful and then kissed Mom on the cheek.

“Hi, Mom,” I said.

“Hello, darling,” she replied. Mom was as short and quiet as Midge was tall and loud, always the life of the party. Both of their families had arrived in the city from small towns in Italy. When I was growing up my parents spoke a rapid blend of Italian and English to each other, and my own Italian was still pretty good.

“Are those oranges from Diego’s stand at the market?” Alice asked.

I nodded, handing them to Alice as I gently pried the hose from her papery fingers. “Go sit with Mom. Remember, you’re letting me do shit like this for you now.”

The sun bounced off her white hair. “My, my, such language from such a sweet boy.”

I hid a smile. “Stuff like this,” I corrected. For an Irish woman who’d been strict as hell about the language Rowan and I used growing up, she cursed a goddamn blue streak whenever she felt like it.

A drop of sweat rolled down my back as I worked the hose, squinting up at the sun from under my hand.

“Dean, baby, can you stay for breakfast?” Midge asked.

“Can’t,” I said. I turned off the spigot. Shook water from my hands. “Edna Kozlowski hired me to fix her fridge this morning. I’ve gotta go in a minute.”

“Oh, Edna, off Cantrell?”

I nodded again as I wrapped the hose around my arm. I’d been killing time the past few years as a handyman, doing odd repair jobs for neighbors. It was easy. I was good at it. And if I was lucky, the person would ignore me and let me work quietly in peace. That wasn’t the case with Edna, so I had to conserve my limited conversational energy.

“We know her from church, don’t we, Alice?” Midge said.

“Oh yes, that we do,” she answered. “She used to babysit the Tyler girls when their parents were going through their”—Alice dropped her voice—“terrible divorce.”

“Hush, Alice,” Midge said. “Their father is a sweet, sweet man, and he makes one heck of a pork roll at that diner of his. He didn’t deserve an ounce of what that woman did to him and his daughters.”

I froze as I was bending down to drop the hose. Turned my head. “The Tyler girls? You mean Linda’s nieces?”

“The very same,” Alice said, indifferent to my mother’s mild scolding. “Tabitha was in school with you and Rowan. You remember, right? Was she older than you or younger?”