Ash got his mom settled in the passenger seat, then crouched in the back of the van with Bruce and directed Truman. They pulled up in front of a picturesque cottage with a wraparound porch, a chimney, and white-painted clapboard siding. But as they approached the front door, the details came into focus. The paint was peeling, the porch sagged, and several boards’ ends had popped up. There were parts of the siding that looked rotted, and the front door opened with a wailsome squeak.

Inside, the house was open and airy, but even at first glance, something was off about it. There was a hand mixer in the magazine rack, a pile of folded clothes on top of the mantel, and a decorative birdcage with a single dusty light bulb inside.

Ash bustled around the house, putting things quickly to rights and talking to Julia all the while. Was she warm enough? Did she know what she wanted for dinner? What had she and Marjorie been talking about?

It was a perfectly choreographed ballet, and Truman stood there, holding Bruce’s leash and feeling useless.

“What’s your name, dear?” Julia asked him as he followed them into the kitchen.

“Truman.”

“Like Truman Capote,” she said with an engaging smile.

She twisted her hair up and secured it with a pencil. She was really quite beautiful.

“Yup.”

It was always preferable to get Capote over Harry S.

“I read Breakfast at Tiffany’s when I was thirteen, and I wanted to run away to New York City.”

Truman grinned. “I know what you mean. I saw the movie in college, and it made me wish my life was glamorous like Holly Golightly’s.”

“Oh, no,” Julia said, brow furrowing in a way that made Truman worry he’d upset her. “Holly Golightly’s life isn’t glamorous. It’s an eggshell of glamour with nothing inside: easily shattered and impossible to fill. She’s miserable. Don’t you remember the end?”

Truman did not, in fact, remember the end.

“She’s the cat, dear. We’re all the cat. Poor slobs with no names.”

“I didn’t like that movie,” Ash chimed in.

Julia turned to him and cupped his cheek. Then she winked at Truman. “Ashleigh hates charming people.”

Truman was about to laugh, but Ash said, “They’re slick and glib and I don’t trust them.”

“Should I be…insulted by that?” Truman had always rather thought that being charming was positive.

“No, because you’re not.”

Well, that answered that question.

Julia seemed to have recovered from her concern about Ash, but as he boiled pasta and defrosted sauce from the freezer, she peppered him with questions about when he got his new couch and whether Marjorie was a good roommate.