Marianne Baker walked through the doors of Starbucks wearing a blue-and-white-striped maxidress that wafted around her ankles. Her hair was blown straight out around her chin and she wore layers of bracelets nearly up to her elbows. Even from across the bustling coffee shop, I could hear their charms clink together.

I lifted my coffee cup in greeting, and she turned and smiled. She sat down at the table across from me, her dress blowing around her legs. She clasped her hands in front of her.

I had called her under the guise of meeting for coffee to discuss the cakewalk for the carnival, and she’d readily agreed. I almost felt guilty about my real motives after how excited she was to get together. But I was desperate.

“Thanks for meeting me today,” I said. I tucked my hair behind my ears to hide my shaking hands. I took a quick breath, trying to steady my voice. “And thank you so much for helping with the cakewalk goodies.”

She leaned forward and rested a hand on mine. “I’m happy to help. I miss the days when my kids were little, but I do remember how grueling they were.”

I nodded, and we discussed who she had recruited and the various treats she was baking for the prizes. I fixed my face into a grateful, relaxed expression.

“And it really was such a lovely neighborhood to raise a family. The wives all became friends, and we raised our children together,” she said. “We would pull a card table out into the cul-de-sac and play cards while the children played in the yards.”

I nodded. “That’s sort of what is still happening. Not the cards, but all of our kids are growing up together. And the moms are friends.” I felt my throat constrict as I silently added, Or we all used to be. The weight of what we were on the verge of losing threatened to overwhelm me, until I shoved it back down.

She nodded. “Oh yes. If one of us would need to run out, or do laundry, or just pop to the grocery, the rest of us would just keep an eye on her kids.” She sat back, a faraway look on her face. “What a wonderful way to grow up.”

“So why did you leave Whispering Farms?” I said as I took a sip of my coffee, trying to look nonchalant.

She turned away, and the distant look returned. “It was time.” A flicker of something I couldn’t identify passed across her eyes. “Our kids were grown, and it made sense. The house didn’t feel right anymore.”

I couldn’t dance around the subject. “My friend who lives in your old house isn’t feeling right, either. Liz Kowalski. I’m just wondering if you two are sharing an experience in common.”