“It’s OK.” It wasn’t OK, and it was hard to lie about it. Ann had tossed and turned the whole night, wondering what Poppy knew. Had Michael told her that he’d intended to sue them? Did she know he wanted to force the sale? Was she in on it? What else did Michael tell her? Whose side was Poppy on? What was Ann up against? Whatever it was, she felt certain she had the upper hand now.

“Let’s just stay here,” Poppy said. “The fire is finally going, and I’ve got leftovers. Brad’s a great cook. There’s still an open bottle of wine.”

Ann looked around. The place really was inviting. Clean, even. The beds were made, and the sink was free of dirty dishes. More than that, the house felt like it had … what? Life. It smelled of food and showers and smoke from the fireplace.

“About Michael—” Poppy said.

“Let’s not talk about that.” Ann forced herself to smile. “I want to hear about you.”

“What about me?” Poppy seemed suspicious—or at least leery. Sure, time had gone by. Not so much that Ann couldn’t read her sister’s skepticism. “What do you want to know?”

“Just, you know, normal catching-up stuff.” Ann tried hard to sound bright, although she knew she probably sounded more like she was trying to give a bad performance review to an employee she liked. “So, where all have you lived? How’ve you been?”

“How’ve I been? Let’s see: Good. Bad. Confused. What the fuck? I don’t have a SparkNotes version of my life prepared for you. God, I don’t even know how to talk to you anymore, Ann. You’re so mad all the time, and I don’t know why.” Poppy pushed her hair away from her face and tied it into a ponytail, a practiced move. She looked especially lovely, and Ann wished she could say so. “I’ve been learning things, Ann. About you. About Michael. About Noah. About the house. I thought we could work things out if we all had a chance to sit down together. I wasn’t trying to hurt you or piss you off. All I wanted to do was talk, and you shut me down. I’m your sister, not your enemy. All you care about anymore is … real estate.”

Ann thought of something a friend had told her when she’d left for Milwaukee shortly after her parents had died. “Everyone grieves differently,” she’d said. “The grief can come out in all different ways, like anger.” Was that what was happening to Ann? Maybe Poppy was right: maybe she was hiding her grief behind the houses. And now, thanks to Maureen, Ann had a lovely solution for what, for so long, had seemed like an insurmountable problem.