Perhaps breeding explained Caroline’s tolerance for all the people at the farmer’s market, for Gerald, for Jane herself. Perhaps it explained her emotional generosity, the mild but seemingly genuine interest she had in Thomas’s conversation. This world of proud lineage and family tradition, of inherited wealth and social standing, of gracious hosting and polite conversation, of solid brick houses and hundred-acre estates was so different from the disjointed incoherence of Jane’s alcoholic background, she and Caroline might as well be different species. She felt simultaneously like a visitor at the zoo and one of the caged animals on display. The only thing that made her feel slightly more at ease was knowing that Dale didn’t belong here either. They rattled up to the side of the house and Caroline turned off the engine. The car made a few shuddering protests and sank. Caroline opened her door and stepped one foot out, then seemed to think better of it and turned toward Jane. She put her hand on her knee. “You’re a good friend,” she said. And leaned over and carefully placed a lemon-scented kiss on Jane’s cheek.

Jane practically swooned. She wanted to grab Caroline’s hand. Leave Dale, she wanted to say. Let me live here instead. Let me try to be more like you.

Dale was sitting at the kitchen table, talking building codes on the wall phone with the cord stretched across the room. There was a tall glass in front of him filled with ice and—probably—liquor, and he was swirling the ice with two fingers in lazy, distracted circles. His feet, encased in black sandals with Velcro straps, were propped up on the chair beside him. His body language was completely out of sync with his barking tone of voice, so you couldn’t tell whether he was having a pleasant, relaxing afternoon in the country or a hellish business crisis. Of course, he probably didn’t know himself. Caroline went to the rounded aqua refrigerator—all the appliances in the house were masterpieces of 1940s and 1950s design—to put away a package of goat cheese.

“Where are Thomas and Gerald?” Jane asked quietly.

Dale moved the mouthpiece under his chin. “Down by the lake with the dog. Father-son outing.”

Dale had on shorts and a polo jersey; only Thomas and Gerald, both of whom had put on long pants and a sweater that morning, had dressed for the season rather than the weather. She suspected there was some hidden meaning to the comment about “father-son outing,” but she didn’t care enough about his opinion of either Thomas or Gerald to try to figure it out.

Caroline was loading the freezer with loaves of bread. “Jane had an encounter with Wilma Wyndam at the farmer’s market,” she said.

“The Nazi?” Dale asked. “Fuck this call,” he said, pushed himself out of his chair and slammed down the phone.