Poppy laughed. “Me too. I’ve already imagined who they are. The woman—she has an elegant name. Something like Evelyn or Jacqueline. She buys organic and sleeps on one of those acupressure mats. She has a rule: no makeup on vacation.”

“Except lipstick,” Noah says, “because lipstick isn’t really makeup.”

Poppy laughed. “Her husband, his name is Travis.”

“Totally! And he’s a banker.”

“He likes to talk about deals. At parties, he tells everyone we’re due for a correction soon.”

“He’s on his phone all the time.”

“He can’t go to the beach because the sand irritates his feet, and the sun makes his psoriasis flare up,” said Poppy. “Instead, he sits around and reads Malcolm Gladwell books when he isn’t following the market.”

They went on like this about everything.

As soon as Poppy got used to Noah’s company, he had to go back to Boston, promising to return the next weekend. Poppy fell to pieces during the week. She missed her parents, Noah, and especially Brad. She even missed Ann, and was irritated that she hadn’t bothered to visit.

One morning, while Poppy was resting on the couch, someone knocked at the door, which startled her. Nobody knocked on doors in Wellfleet.

More efficient tap-tap-taps. “It’s me, Carol. Anyone home?”

Not Carol, the evil Realtor. Ann went on and on about all the stuff Carol wanted her to do around the house—Carol says this, Carol says that. She was like a stepmother.

Poppy looked around and thought about the messes she’d made. She’d let her clothes sit in rebellious heaps on the floor next to her bed. The frying pan with dried eggs had remained unwashed in the sink for days. Empties. Damp towels. Dust. Poppy could have done everything Ann asked her to do, but she didn’t—not because she was lazy. There was more to it; a simmering anger, a willful effort to defy Ann, who had been terse and cold when they spoke on the phone. Instead of talking about anything that mattered, she went over to-do lists at a clipped pace, cold and practical. What did it even mean that they were sisters? Ann treated their relationship as an inconvenience.

Another knock. Don’t answer, don’t answer.… She heard the key turn in the lock—of course Carol had a key. Poppy abruptly tossed off the throw blanket, stood up in the harsh chilly air, and smoothed out her hair. She felt guilty, busted. The door swung open, followed by energetic footsteps. Poppy said, “Um, hi?”

“So, someone is here.” Carol’s voice was cold, even angry. “I saw the car in the drive. I have some paperwork, and since I was on my way to a showing in Brewster I figured—wait.” She stopped in the doorway. “Poppy?”

“Yeah.”