“I know in the World According to Rose, Lu Lawson was the enemy,” Zoe went on, “but you're going to have to talk to your grandmother someday. She is your family, after all.”

Carrie looked at her best friend. Zoe's mother and grandmother had gone on peace marches together in the sixties. When Zoe was a kid, she and Mrs. Forester had bonded at Saturday matinees. Zoe was Carrie's oldest and dearest friend, but there were some things she'd never understand.

“I can't go see Lu because … I can't change my plans,” Carrie had said. “I told Uncle Paulie I was coming, and I bought a map of Connecticut.”

“You are aware that that excuse is not only lame, but it doesn't make sense—right?”

“Yeah, but it's the best I've got.”

So now Carrie was trying to stay in the slow lane of the Merritt Parkway—which was also the lane where cars merged, and she could never remember if she was supposed to slow down or out-speed them—as she drove past the towns of Connecticut looking for an exit she knew she was going to miss. She cursed herself for going on a fool's errand.

SEAVIEW MANOR WAS not the Dickensian nursing home Carrie had been picturing. It featured a large white clapboard building that looked more like a Victorian mansion than a warehouse for the elderly. It had been built on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and even from the car, the view was spectacular. Carrie opened her window and breathed in salt air.

The interior decor continued the Victorian mansion motif—there was a lot of lacy wicker furniture with comfortable cushions, and large pots of colorful flowers were scattered everywhere. Two card games were going strong at tables near the front windows, and there was a television at the far end of the room where several people had congregated to watch a cooking show. It was only after a second look that Carrie realized how many walkers and canes were leaning up against chairs and how many of the chairs had wheels. She made her way to the main desk, but before she could speak, a voice called out, “Carrie?”

Uncle Paulie was spry on his feet; no cane or walker for him. And he was a natty dresser—which Carrie liked in a man. His cotton sweater vest was coral, the shirt underneath it was the same color with white stripes. He wore a coral silk ascot—one tone darker than the sweater—and impeccable white slacks and loafers completed his ensemble. His hair had been dyed brown, but the thick curls were all his own. His only accommodation to age seemed to be a pair of glasses and a hearing aid stuck in each ear.

Uncle Paulie pulled Carrie into a hug so strong, it almost knocked her off her feet and said, “I'da known you anywhere. You're the spitting image of Lu!”