She marched down the path, her ponytail a pendulum. She was even more stunning up close, her smile wide and white, all teeth and gums, like the grin of a child. Her eyes were gray, her brows blond but thick, and she was probably older than me, five or ten years, maybe; it was hard to say.

‘Don’t jump, Dusty,’ I said.

‘Oh, it’s okay.’ She looked from Dusty to me. She was a couple of inches taller than me, and she smelled of warm earth with a note of something biting. Dirt stamped her knees, and there was a crunchy green plastic basket sitting in front of the overgrown flower beds behind her. Before she’d been arguing, she’d been gardening. ‘You must be renting the cottage?’ she asked. ‘The place that Jennifer –’ She paused abruptly. ‘The Clarks’ place, the ones who went to Phoenix.’

I nodded. ‘That’s the one.’

‘I’m Vera.’ She stuck out her hand. Her fingers were short and a little stubby, probably the one thing she worried about when she made a mental list of her flaws. Unlike my acne scars, stubby fingers were a decadent flaw to have. ‘Nice to properly meet you.’

I hesitated only a second, suddenly nervous, before I said, ‘Lucy.’

‘And who’s this?’ she asked.

‘Dusty.’ I smiled. It was hard not to smile when talking about Dusty, even now.

Vera’s voice morphed into full baby-talk mode. ‘Aren’t you just da cutest with your fluffy wittle head and wet wittle nose.’ She looked up. ‘Boy or girl?’

‘Boy.’

‘Who’s a good boy?’ Vera asked, as Dusty tried his best to lick her chin. ‘Dusty’s a good boy, that’s who.’ She stood, her pants now covered in Dusty’s white fur. ‘How long are you staying?’

It was strange. Only minutes ago, she’d been fighting with whoever was in that house. Now she was carrying on like nothing was the matter. My cheekbone lit up, not with pain so much as awareness of all that had transpired. Could it be so simple; could you argue and yell and walk out and meet your new neighbor?

I raised my hand, blocking my cheek. The sun was too bright; the kind of day that uncovered secrets, melted away snow hiding a dead body, penetrated the dermatologist-approved concealer and revealed something nasty. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘It’s just month to month right now.’

Vera’s expression went sour. Was she trying to avoid looking at the bruise, or had she not noticed? Her face brightened again, a light on a dimmer, turning up and down at will. ‘Well, hi, neighbor,’ she said. ‘Welcome to Woodstock. You from the city?’

Reluctantly, I nodded.