“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, sitting upright in bed. “What’d you do, use all dozen eggs?”

Poppy nodded. All she wore were knee-high blue socks and a greasy dish towel slung over her shoulder. The omelet teetered precariously toward John and he recoiled.

“Is that . . .” John stared at the thing. “Why does it smell like . . . did you put cinnamon in it?”

“Like a special pancake.”

John laughed uncontrollably while Poppy sputtered angrily like a steaming teapot. Her nipples were bright and erect, pubic hair matted sideways like a crooked toupee, goosebumps covering her bare arms. “Well, if you’re just going to sit there laughing at me while this beautiful breakfast gets cold . . .”

John took the omelet from her and set it on the bed stand, then he pulled her back into bed.

Scott had become a regular customer at Luigi’s during his years in law school at Wheeling University. He usually went to the restaurant with two or three of his buddies, and they would sit at the bar drinking Peronis and watching sports on the TV. He started chatting up Lisa one day, dazzled by her beauty and small-town naïveté. Scott was in his final year of law school and almost thirty at the time; he had worked in sales for several years before deciding to pursue law. For their first date, he took her to his campus, where they walked around and he showed her the buildings where he went to class and the small cathedral where he attended mass, then they went to dinner at the only French restaurant in Wheeling. As soon as Scott passed the bar and received an offer from Raslowe & Associates, he and Lisa became engaged and moved up to Warrenton, just outside of D.C., where they had lived ever since.

Their relationship made perfect sense. Despite her humble upbringing, Lisa had always had a taste for the finer things. She lusted after the clothes she saw on soap operas and the handbags that the wealthy college students carried around. She tried to eliminate the distinctly West Virginia aspects of her Southern accent. Lisa always knew she was going to end up with money. It was never a question of if, just a question of when and who.

In the months leading up to their wedding, Lisa converted to Catholicism in order to appease Scott and his parents and so that the priest at Scott’s home church could officiate. Baptism, first communion, confirmation, the whole shebang. Lisa privately found the whole process ridiculous and humiliating—taking classes alongside eight-year-olds, pretending she cared to know the difference between schisms and the sacraments—but for Scott’s sake she fulfilled these requirements without complaint.

Their reception was a lavish affair at the country club Scott’s parents belonged to. Poppy got rip-roaring drunk, picked a fight with the DJ, and wore Lisa’s garter around her own head for a while. Lisa thought it was all a gas, but Scott’s mother was appalled and insisted on calling a cab for John and Poppy, back to the Super 8 where they were spending the night. Scott’s mother said to John, “The Super 8? You didn’t get a room at the Plaza? We got the special rate and everything, specifically—” She cut herself off, but the meaning was clear: We got the special rate specifically for people like you.