Libby is waiting for my answer. “He . . . that is, it’s a new job and I’m not . . . I don’t . . .” My voice falls away.

Libby cocks her head in a gesture of concern. “Is everything quite all right, Mrs. Hocking?”

Here is a question with such a bizarre answer, I can’t help myself. “That might depend on how you look at it,” I say with a laugh, and then immediately wish I could snatch the words back.

My neighbor’s eyes widen in alarm. “Is your husband involved in some kind of illegal activity?” she whispers.

“No!” I gasp. “No. It’s not that. It’s . . .” Again, I let the words die on my tongue.

Libby regards me for a moment, and then she leans forward and lifts the cloth off the plate resting on the table between us. Lovely petits fours are arranged like little bud-topped houses. “I say we have something sweet and a cup of tea and a long chat. Shall we ring for it?”

Ring for it?

Libby looks behind her, as if expecting someone to enter the room. She swings back around to face me. “Does your maid have the day off today?”

My maid. This is why Libby looked so surprised when I answered the door. She expected my maid to do it. Never did I think I’d be getting a maid when I married Martin Hocking, and apparently he didn’t think so, either. He’s never spoken of it.

“We haven’t hired one,” I say, as delicately as I can.

Libby stands, hoists her son to one side, and grabs the plate. “It’s hard coming to a new place and not knowing anyone. I know people who know where to find a good maid. I can ask for you. Here. You and I can make the tea, can’t we?”

I want to tell her I make it all the time. I want to tell her I don’t think I want someone else keeping this house. Besides Kat, it’s the only thing I have that feels like it belongs to me.

“Of . . . of course. Right this way.” I lead her to the kitchen, where the kettle is already simmering. She smiles at me.

“Well, look there, thinking ahead like that. You’ve already got the water going!” Then Libby asks if Timmy can play with some pots, pans, and wooden spoons so that he won’t grow fussy. I ask Kat to find the makeshift playthings and she readily complies, sitting down on the floor with Timmy as he bangs away on a copper pot. Libby leans up against the pie safe and crosses her arms across her chest. I turn up the heat under the kettle.

“Let’s start at the beginning. What’s your husband’s name?” she asks.

“Martin.” I pull a tin of tea out of the cupboard.

“And he’s from Los Angeles?”

“Not exactly. He’s originally from back east but he came to Los Angeles a few years back.”