“Why don’t you have a rest?” her mother would bleat from her armchair at nine o’clock as Jean dragged the furniture into the middle of the room to sweep behind it, slamming the Ewbank into the baseboard, or jumped up on a chair to wipe cobwebs from the picture rails.

“I don’t need a rest; I’m fine,” Jean would call as she whisked past, convinced that if she did everything at double speed she could trick time into hurrying to meet her.

On Friday she left work a little early in time to call in at Deborah’s (Ladies’ Fashions of Distinction) and bought herself a claret-colored wool dress with a pleated skirt, which she had seen on a mannequin in the window. Gretchen’s dress, although perhaps more elegant, brought to mind too forcefully its absent creator and was therefore ruled out. Claret was a much bolder choice than her usual safe gray or navy and she wondered if it would provoke raised eyebrows indoors.

The only area in which Jean had failed to triumph was achieving a leave of absence for the afternoon. She had taken a detour past Mrs. Melsom’s on her way to and from work, but they were evidently away. There was no Riley in the driveway, and the curtains upstairs and down were half drawn, and the mail slot taped shut—measures more likely to attract burglars than to repel them, in Jean’s view.

Her hope rested on the fact that it was some while since she had gone “gallivanting” on a Saturday and on her weeklong tour of duty in Lymington, for which she felt some credits were due. Even so, she was not confident enough to bring up the matter much in advance, leaving it to the morning itself to present it as a fait accompli.

“I haven’t seen that before,” her mother observed as Jean appeared at breakfast, a trifle self-conscious in the claret-colored dress. “Is it new?”

“Yes. I bought it at Deborah’s yesterday.” She swished the skirt to and fro to show off the pleats before covering it with an apron to protect it from splashes.

“Very smart. What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing special.” Jean turned her back and began to busy herself at the stove preparing oatmeal. “I’m meeting a friend in town . . . if you can manage without me for a few hours.”

“Oh. I daresay I can. You won’t be out all day, I suppose.”

“No. Just lunch. I’ll be getting the midday train. If there’s anything you need I could pop into Derry & Tom’s afterward.”

This was a tactical move, turning it from a jaunt into an errand. But her mother was not so easily played.

“I don’t think so. Who’s the friend? Anyone I know?”

Jean sighed. She had no appetite for the conversation that would surely follow, but she couldn’t tell the kind of lie that might need elaborate embroidery in the future.

“Howard,” she conceded.

“On his own?”

Here we go, thought Jean. “Yes, on his own.”