It was an excuse. I had plenty of time to take up a new hobby, but I didn’t want to act on my husband’s suggestions. On some level, I blamed him for the loss of my best friend. It was Brian’s jealousy and insecurity that had severed my relationship with Freya. I appreciated his devotion to me. I was grateful for his loyalty. But Freya, Max, and I might have been able to close the door on the whole swapping incident and put it behind us. Brian was the one who couldn’t get over it.

So, I bided my time, working at the store, going for long solo walks in the forest, reading. I had little human contact other than Brian. Of course, I had to respond to the artisans who contacted me, asking, in vain, if any of their products had sold. I dealt with the sprinkling of customers who dropped in for a birthday or housewarming gift. And Low worked with me every Saturday, although my introverted employee did little to assuage my loneliness.

One Saturday, she seemed marginally more upbeat. “Can I leave a bit early today?” she asked, as she was wiping a shelf of scented candles in mason jars. “I want to get some backlit photos of Freya for her Insta.”

“Oh . . .” I cleared the frog in my throat. “I didn’t know you two were friends again.”

“Yep,” she said, her tone breezy. “It was all a misunderstanding.”

“Great.”

“We’re building Freya’s brand. I’ve been taking some amazing shots of her. She’s going to be more popular than she ever was.”

Maybe Freya didn’t miss me? Maybe she was consumed by her Instagram celebrity, her days filled with photo shoots and sponsorship deals and swag deliveries?

“So can I go?” Low asked. “The sun sets so early this time of year. If I leave here at five thirty, I’ll miss the light.”

“Yeah, of course.” I forced a smile. “Unless it gets too busy, but I’m sure it won’t. I can handle things alone. And close up alone. It’s no problem. You go and get your sunset photos of Freya.”

A small, triumphant smile twitched Low’s lips, but she pulled it back. “Thanks.” She returned to her dusting.

As soon as Low left at five, I got out my phone and tapped the Instagram app. I hadn’t looked at Freya’s page since she returned from Mexico. To my surprise, she’d been posting daily. The photos—Low’s photos—were stunning, showing off Freya’s fecund beauty. My former bestie had been photographed in a kayak, against a backdrop of fir trees, lounging on a pebbled beach. She was promoting everything from sofas to breakfast food to skin-care products. Freya was back in the game that had turned on her and tossed her out.