Cover

Dedication

For Newburyport, my adopted hometown

Prologue

That was the summer we all drank tequila by the gallon. Not really, of course—if that had been true we all would have ended up dead, instead of only one person. Although there was no alcohol involved. It was your garden-variety car accident, the Acura crushed against the pole on that deserted stretch of Hale Street, the driver dead on impact.

Garden-variety. It happened all the time. Except that it wasn’t, and it didn’t, not in our town.

June

1.

The Squad

Later we would remember that we first set eyes on Sherri Griffin on Sawyer’s Beach, on the first day of the first session of surf camp. From the beginning, we weren’t sure she fit in. In fact, we weren’t even sure how she got in: surf-camp sign-ups happened in April, and she said she and her daughter had only just moved here. Somebody had to have clued her in before she moved. Or a child had dropped out, leaving a space open, and this newcomer had snapped it up. Perhaps she was savvier than she looked.

We remembered that she asked about the best place to get a haircut for her daughter, whose hair was curly.

“Rebecca would know,” Tammy said. “She has a wave in her hair.” She indicated the woman standing at the shoreline.

“Rebecca knows everything about the town,” Esther added slyly, and purposefully. “And she’s a planner.”

“Oh yes,” Monica added. “She’s very organized.” It was true. Rebecca decided when we would take our annual trip to Nantucket, where and when we would eat when we got there, and, most important, who would go. It was Rebecca who coordinated the carefully curated shots of us in our white jeans. It was Rebecca who tastefully filtered the photos and posted them on Instagram and Facebook, tagging each of us so that for any outsiders perusing their feeds there would be no doubt about who was there.

And, of course, who wasn’t.

Well, that was the old Rebecca.

There were twelve of us, an even dozen. Occasionally we made an exception to allow for more. For example, for Brandy’s fortieth, three years ago, we included two of her book club friends on the weekend trip to Chicago, bringing the total number to fourteen.

Fourteen, we all agreed later, was too many. There was the thing with the spiked seltzers, to cite an example. One of the interlopers drank five (!) White Claws without offering to replenish when we Ubered to the liquor store. The other got very drunk during Brandy’s birthday dinner out, at Twain, and was later sick at the Airbnb we had rented in Lincoln Park. We all agreed this made everybody uncomfortable and was not to be repeated.