The house was an expanded bungalow with a four-car garage off to the side. In back, close to the water, were a gorgeous tiled pool and a sweeping green lawn that rolled gently down to a private dock. At the end of the dock was a motor boat. Sherri didn’t know enough about boats to know the size or what kind of hull or motors it had, but her sense of the boat was one of quiet opulence. Emphasis on quiet. She was getting used to the way a lot of the wealth in Massachusetts was hidden down streets like this, behind stone walls or fences, more whisper than scream. In Sherri’s old life, when people had money you knew it. When Sherri had money, everyone knew it. Other people saw to that.

The girls were still splashing around in the pool, so Sherri let herself in the wrought-iron gate. Taylor’s mother, Brooke, was stretched out on a lounge chair, reading the newest Elin Hilderbrand novel. She sat up when Sherri came in and shielded her eyes from the sun with a hand. Katie waved at Sherri and then resumed the handstand contest she and Taylor were having. Good luck to Taylor, thought Sherri. Katie could hold her breath all day long, and into the night.

“Hi, girls!” she said cheerfully, the way she thought a normal mother in a normal situation might.

“Drink?” said Brooke. She unwound herself from the chair. She was wearing, very well, Sherri decided, a small black bikini with a strap over one shoulder. A drink? Sherri glanced at her watch. It was 2:30 in the afternoon. She hesitated, and before she had a chance to decide, Brooke had disappeared into a pool house that Sherri had just noticed and, once returned, was pressing a cold glass of rosé into her hands.

“Thank you,” Sherri said.

“Summer Water,” Brooke said. “It’s my favorite.” She pointed toward the sweating bottle, which she had placed on one of the side tables. There was a side table next to each chair, along with a pool towel rolled up the way they did them in resorts. Brooke tipped her wine toward Sherri’s and they clinked glasses.

Sherri took a sip. “Delicious,” she said. The wine was dry and light and Sherri thought she tasted grapefruit or maybe lemon. In her old life she had gone for the hard stuff, and plenty of it. A glass of rosé felt tantamount to drinking a Capri Sun.

“Sit down,” said Brooke, gesturing toward one of the lounge chairs. It was more command than offer. Sherri sat, then leaned back awkwardly into the cushion. She wasn’t wearing sunbathing clothes; she was wearing an unfashionable set of khaki capris and a plain white T-shirt. She’d left her old wardrobe behind. She and Katie both had. It was better that way, easier. In fact, it was imperative.