I turn the water off, the sleeve of Evan’s sweatshirt immediately soaked, and pad down the stairs where I discover four elderly women—each seemingly a decade older than the other—snooping around the cottage. Despite my creaks on the stairs, the women don’t hear me. I watch them for a few seconds—picking up photos, touching the fabric, analyzing artwork, even running a finger over a table and inside a bookshelf to check for dust—and begin to wonder if I’m watching The Golden Girls meets HGTV.

I tiptoe until I’m a few feet behind the group now on their way into the kitchen, and say loudly, “Hello, ladies!”

The women jump as one.

“You startled us!” one of the women says in a clipped tone.

You’re in my house, I think.

She turns and extends her hand. “Iris Dragoon.”

The Dragoon Lady! I can immediately hear my mother say. She breathes fire, Adie Lou!

My first thought is—this woman is still alive?

I remember Iris Dragoon visiting my parents when I was a girl, always dropping by unannounced to fund-raise for the Preservation Committee, or Holiday Decorating Committee, or History Museum, or one of the endless committees on which she served. I thought she was ancient three decades ago, but it’s as if she’s been preserved, under glass, because I can’t tell much of a difference in her appearance from years ago. To me, she’s always looked as if she might be Joan Collins’s mother: heavy, but impeccably applied evening makeup, complete with false lashes and a shockingly red lip. Today, she is sporting a pantsuit Joan herself might have worn to the Emmys in the 1980s: a bejeweled jacket with giant shoulder pads and big, shiny buttons, a black turtleneck and shockingly tight black pants tucked into black boots with a gold buckle. But the topper—quite literally—is that she is wearing two—two!—chestnut-colored wigs that give her the appearance of full hair in the front and lots of height in the back.

“On behalf of the Saugatuck Preservation Committee, welcome!”

The Dragoon Lady doesn’t really say this in a welcoming manner, but more as if she’s holding court. Before I can say a word, she claps her hands. “Gladys!”

“Oh, yes, yes, sorry,” a woman with blue hair says nervously, holding out a pretty basket wrapped in colorful foil.

I take the basket, the foil making a loud crunching sound, and set it on the kitchen counter. “That’s so nice of you,” I say, again hearing my mother’s voice. It’s the same basket every year, Adie Lou. It just gets passed along, like fruitcake.

“What brings you all here today?” I ask.