By the time she got back to her car, the light had changed. And just to prove a point—what point exactly she wasn’t sure—she decided to turn right anyway. The woman in the safari vehicle roared past her, and Jane burst out laughing. Jane was heading in the wrong direction and would have to go a good mile out of her way to turn around, but it had been worth it. True, she was running late for her own dinner party, but two days ago, when she had the bright idea of inviting her brother and his wife, she’d called the culinary school in Cambridge and hired some student caterers, so she didn’t have to worry about cooking. Her mother-in-law was looking after Gerald (babysitting didn’t seem, had never seemed, the appropriate term for watching over Gerald), so even if she was half an hour late, no serious damage would be done. Sarah could just add this to the tally of resentments and petty offenses she was doubtlessly keeping on file in the computer Thomas had recently bought her. Thank God it was only another month or so before she moved out and went south to live with Thomas’s right-wing sister and her racist (though admittedly sexy) husband. The sister, Beth, was one of those sweet, God-fearing types who attended regular meetings of a prayer group where they discussed “philosophy and miracles,” which Jane was sure meant trading statuettes of angels and planning abortion clinic bombings.

“It’ll be good for Sarah to have something new to stew about,” Jane said aloud. “It keeps her brain cells active.”

The comment was addressed to Helen, who was flung out across the back seat like a hunting trophy. Celeste Gray was still in the hospital, and it looked as if she’d be there for a while. After fixing her shin, the doctors had moved on to her kidneys, and Jane suspected they’d run through all the major organs before they let her out. Jane had met Celeste a few times and hadn’t liked her. She was one of those older women you’re supposed to admire as intelligent and courageous because they’re hypercritical and insulting. Despite her initial resistance, Jane had grown attached to the creaky old dog. She had all the virtues of a bloated alcoholic friend, the kind of nonjudgmental lug you could confide in because she had no attention span or memory. (“I just shot my husband and ate his body.” “Aw, that’s a shame.”)