“I thought I was going to hate it, the first year,” Laurel said. “But turns out the girls here are very amusing.” She reached out and managed to pinch Janet’s arm before she could pull it away. “Anyway, my parents still think it’s good for me.”

“Shows what they know,” I said, and at this, she threw back her head and laughed, and I was almost shocked by the warmth that spread through my body. Laurel had a quality about her that I’ve noticed in well-liked people my entire life, but have never been able to emulate: when she focused on you, she made you feel like you were the most attractive, interesting person in the room. She pleased by making others feel pleasurable. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she was attractive. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she radiated wealth. You could see the wealth in her cheeks, clear as anything. Day. Crystal. Vodka. My own parents managed, but things were harder for all of us after the separation. Corners and coupons were cut. Laurel was going to be a debutante in the fall.

“They’re even making me perform at the ceremony,” she said.

“Perform what?” I wanted to know.

“My parents gave me a choice when I was a kid,” she said. “Piano or violin. I, of course, crossed my arms and said harp.” She stuck out her bottom lip, now and, presumably, then. She got a harp. The orchestra at her school didn’t know what to do with her. They kept giving her piano parts, and no one ever heard her angelic glissandos over the chorus of slammed keys. Not wanting to waste their investment, her parents signed her up for a nearby harpists’ ensemble. Harpists are strange people, Laurel informed us. One woman in the group was in her fifties and had never once cut her hair; she looped it around her waist when she played. “Her ends,” Laurel said, throwing a hand over her eyes. “They haunt me.” There was only one man in the group. He had a kind face, nearly handsome, and he wore old-fashioned wire glasses and vintage three-piece suits. He was Laurel’s favorite, and she liked to sit beside him and watch him play.

“I used to dream about him,” she said. “He had the most magnificent harp I’ve ever seen. And he played so delicately with those large hands. But he never once even looked at me.” She closed her eyes, picturing—what? His hands, his harp, his ability, his inattention? Whatever it was made her hum two low notes to herself.