If only Poppy could hear Ann speaking as if they were a united front. We. They hadn’t talked about what to do with this house, not yet. Poppy said she wanted to spend her summer here, and who knew, she might want to keep it, but she didn’t have a practical bone in her body. Besides, Poppy couldn’t afford to buy Ann out, not with the money she made teaching yoga and waiting tables in Puerto Rico, South Africa, wherever. She flitted from beach to beach, chasing STDs and waves. She didn’t even check her email regularly, which was why she didn’t hear about their parents’ accident until two weeks after it had happened—the loneliest two weeks of Ann’s life.

“Does your sister also live in Boston?”

Ann shook her head. “She’s a bit of an itinerant. She lives all over.”

Carol nodded as though this was perfectly normal. Wellfleet was filled with artists and outsiders like Ann’s parents.

“She’s back home now,” Ann said, thinking about how strange the word “home” sounded. What was home anymore? She tried to clarify: “At my parents’ house. In Wisconsin.” Ann pointed at the Green Bay Packers potholder hanging from a hook near the oven as if she needed supporting evidence.

“Wisconsin?” Carol said “Wisconsin” the way most people out East said it, like they’d just heard the name of a high school classmate they’d long forgotten.

“That’s where we, where they, lived most of the year. We have to sell that house, too. My parents were in the middle of a remodel when it happened.”

Carol didn’t seem particularly interested in what “it” was, and Ann was grateful. She didn’t think she had the strength to talk about the semi driver who had crossed lanes and hit her parents’ car head-on while they were headed back home from the Cape last August. Talking about the accident here, in this sacred space, would only make it real again.

“My sister and I, we aren’t any good at houses and now, suddenly, we have two to sell, and they both need work.”

“Divide and conquer.”

“That’s my plan,” Ann said. “My sister is getting the Milwaukee house ready to sell, and I’m taking care of this one. We’ll both be in real estate hell.”

“It’s like childbirth,” Carol said, although Ann suspected Carol was childless. “You’ll forget how awful it is as soon as you get the check at closing.”

“Closing”: Ann suddenly appreciated what a nice word that was. Ann wanted closure.

“It’s good that you and your sister are in agreement about selling,” Carol said. “Houses, even houses that aren’t special like this one, well, they often make people sentimental.” She talked about sentiment with anthropological distance. “The ones that are hardest to let go of are places that are passed down generation to generation.”