On Thanksgiving, Maggie and Wren, lugging store-bought rolls and pies, joined their neighbors.

Maggie expected to find Linnie at the Blakes’ but didn’t.

“She had a bad episode,” Sam confided out of the others’ earshot. “Got rushed to the hospital to have her stomach pumped.”

“Oh my God.” Maggie stared, shocked. “Is she okay?”

He ran a hand over his tired face, muffling part of his “For now, I guess?”

Later, leaning against the window, Kate insisted, “She’ll come. I know she will.”

Sam wagged his head. “She already called and told you she wouldn’t be able to make it, sweetie.”

“But we have turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy. She loves mashed potatoes.”

It was heartbreaking how long Kate stood with her cheek pressed to the glass, her gaze fixed on the driveway.

Maggie felt a flare of frustration. That Linnie was hurting and battling addictions, Maggie realized. But why wasn’t she seeking professional help?

Sam finally wheedled his daughter to the dinner table with the promise that she could eat her dessert first. Kate moped through the meal. Maggie felt so sorry for her that, after supper, she hauled some interesting-looking toys upstairs and found Kate in her bedroom. “Want to build Legos with me?”

Kate looked up from her paper dolls. “Those are for babies.” She scowled at the toy basket Maggie had set on the floor (like a failed peace offering, she thought ruefully). “I was busy in here using my imagination,” Kate said angrily. “Thanks a lot.” She scrambled to her feet. “And stop trying to act like my mom.” She kicked Maggie in the shin and bolted. From the den: “You’re not my mom!”

Maggie glowered after her. She was tempted to trample the paper dolls. Hobbling out of the bedroom, she said under her breath, “I would never want to be your mother.”

Then she regretted the mutter. Kate was basically a sad kid acting out, taking it out on someone else.

Maggie just wished she wasn’t that someone.

After the holiday, Maggie texted Linnie to make sure she was okay. Though Linnie responded swiftly, it wasn’t much of a response, just a word: fine. Then, with her next text, she changed the subject. And Maggie didn’t know how to get Linnie to open up. She didn’t even know if she should.

The last Saturday of the month arrived. The book club was meeting at the shop to pick its next read, an occasion Maggie would have welcomed had Sam not blown her Marge cover. Now she didn’t want to go—couldn’t drum up the energy to field their questions or even (assuming the girls had done their research on the history of Margaret Arioli) their sympathy and support. I’m as much of an avoider as Mom, Linnie, and Jane, she thought gloomily. She texted Ran an excuse, then crawled into bed and drew the covers up over her head.