“No, the kid. The girl.” Claudia went on to recount how Sophie Brody-Ashworth had bitten Angus Strubel and broken skin. Then she said, “Oh, about the dog. It had worms. That was why it was puking and shitting everywhere. Well, as of last Thursday, the dog? Gone. Anna probably drowned it.”

When Claudia stopped laughing, I asked why she despised Anna Brody. “Oh, I don’t, not at all,” she said. “I actually quite like her, especially now that she’s fattened up. It’s just that you hate her, and I want you to be happy.”

This caused me to stop. Did I hate Anna Brody? What had she done to me? She’d been kind. She’d said nice things about me to others. She’d even given me the most beautiful dress I’ll ever wear. Okay, so it also weirdly happened to be her wedding dress. Her greatest crime had been to be—through no fault of her own—the momentary subject of my husband’s fantasy life, but if that was reason for hatred, then I’d need to add her to a list that included a certain Victoria’s Secret model, a cluster of movie stars, and most notably, the late Donna Reed.

I had no problem with Anna. So to prove it to myself, I called her up and asked her to lunch.

TIM

TIM

IN THOSE FIRST WEEKS AFTER HER RETURN FROM FRANCE, I DIDN’T HAVE MUCH contact with Anna Brody. Whenever we crossed paths, we were cordial but distant. Each time I saw her at preschool drop-off, we’d make minimal eye contact, and if I happened to be with other mothers, she’d greet them warmly but pretty much ignore me. I took this to mean she was covering her tracks. Except for the note (which I admit to hiding in my wallet and frequently taking out to smell its lavender scent), there was no evidence of anything between us. This was to be our secret. Or, I don’t know, maybe she was telling the world. All I knew was she had offered me a weekend, and May ninth was eight weeks away.

One morning after drop-off, Anna and I found ourselves alone, heading in the same direction. As we walked, my heart raced. Thump thump thump. I could feel my pulse in my neck.

Anna spoke first. “What, you don’t like me anymore?

“I’m sorry?”

“You don’t talk to me. You ignore me. You won’t even look at me.”

“Wait a minute. I didn’t leave the country for a month.”

“True,” she said.

“I didn’t send a cryptic note with dates on it.”

“Cryptic? I thought I was rather clear. Is there a problem with the dates?”

“It’s not that.”