“They canceled the meeting tonight, so I’m home.” He sounded tired, as usual.

“Okay.” Vivian had no idea what they talked about at those stupid meetings anyway. Freemasons. Huh. Grown men having secret meetings about God knows what. It all just sounded like a way for them to have an adult version of their tree house with the “No Girls Allowed” sign out front, and call it a “society.” Edward was busy enough, working two jobs. If she hadn’t liked having the house to herself sometimes, she’d be annoyed that he chose to spend most of his free time with a bunch of other men instead of staying home with his family.

“I’ll leave the porch light on.”

“Thank you.”

She disconnected Edward, and reached to connect the next call.

“Number, please.”

The caller, whose voice she didn’t recognize, gave Betty Miller’s home number, which she did. Vivian looked at the clock on the wall, which read ten minutes till eleven. That seemed awfully late to be calling someone who had a family with small children, didn’t it? She assumed Betty Miller had made it home from Freedlander’s, probably enjoyed a fancy dinner of roasted peacock or some such bird, on the rarest china plates and using real honest-to-goodness silverware, and then put her perfect, small, rich children to bed, probably in pajamas made of the finest spun gold. That made her think of Old King Cole. He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, and he called for his fiddlers three . . .

She was getting tired, though. Edward’s call and his mention of the porch light had made her think of just how much she wanted to be home switching off the porch light, slumping up the stairs, and crawling into bed. Plus, she had no interest in hearing Betty Miller talk about how swell her life was, how her Christmas party was going to be the event of the season, how God himself would have cleared his schedule for a chance to sit in the Millers’ living room and sip champagne with the crème de la crème of Wooster society. But something made her pause as the caller said, “Hiya, it’s me.”

The unknown woman’s voice was low and secretive, almost seductive enough to make Vivian uncomfortable. Like the time when she was thirteen and had happened upon her brother and Edith Cramer in the backseat of the family’s Model T. She shuddered a little and stifled a gag, then squinted at the board in front of her, as if the squinting would help her figure out who “me” was.

“You’ll never believe this,” the voice said.

And, although Vivian was sure the disbelief would just have something to do with a surprising new way to put lobster or crab or some other expensive seafood into a casserole recipe, she stayed on the line, held her breath, and listened. After just one minute her body had gone rigid, with her fingers pressing themselves white into the countertop. Her heart thumped in her chest and her mouth went dry. Vivian listened in a state of stunned paralysis, gaping at the switchboard and feeling like the rug of her life had just been yanked out from under her.