Holly was only a year younger than Zanne, but she looked as fresh as the day she’d married Ted fifteen years ago. She wore her reddish hair long, the shade brightening over time as if she were aging in reverse, and kept her lightly freckled skin protected under umbrellas and brimmed hats. It was as if all this time she’d been living beneath a different sun than Zanne, whose left forearm was several shades darker than her right, from her commute. Holly’s pale skin evoked a fragile but expensive doll; Zanne’s fair complexion only made her ancient acne scars easier to spot. But it was more than their appearance that set the two women apart. Holly wasn’t plagued with the troubles that were a fact of life for most adults. She didn’t drive, so never misread a map or made the wrong bet in rush hour traffic. She didn’t do the grocery shopping, so never left the house without her list or forgot a bag of oranges in the shopping cart. Joe paid her bills, Flora made her bed, Erin made her doctor’s appointments and filled her prescriptions, Ilya and James drove her children to school, Katya packed their lunches, Mark hired and fired her household staff, Lauren tried on her clothes, Erin signed her name and impersonated her voice, Dawn and Zanne delivered her messages to Ted when he ducked her calls. So many of the daily concerns that were part and parcel of being a functional adult had been outsourced to the personal staff that there were only two options left for Holly: to be a nonfunctioning adult or to be a child. The difference was academic.

Zanne tried to imagine how this meeting would’ve gone if Phoebe were the lady of the house, not Holly, but she couldn’t do it. Not only because Phoebe had seemed so competent when Zanne saw her around the Omega lot—always looking crisp despite the night shoots, often dressed up in a sharp suit—but also because there’d been no hint of the emotional commitment between her and Ted. Everything about Phoebe had said in charge here but not wife—at least, not this kind.

“I need my stuff for Fortnite,” Flynn said to everyone now. In the last year, he’d hit a major growth spurt. He was several inches taller than his mother, his forehead was dotted with pimples, and he seemed in every possible way, as he slunk toward the door, to wish to disappear.

“What? You’re going to be on this gorgeous boat, fishing with your friends, blue sea and sky as far as you can see. You don’t need video games! In fact, maybe Dad and I should come, too.”

Flynn paused midstep, waiting, as they all were, to see if his mother was serious.