“I don’t think so.”

Colleen scowled and sat up straighter on the couch. “I did.”

“You skimmed.” Hope shrugged. “I can tell. You usually have all sorts of things to say.”

Ran peeled back in the rocker and mused to the ceiling in a singsong fashion, “Someone didn’t do her homework.”

“Why are you picking on me?” Colleen pointed at Maggie, sitting in the old wingback chair. “Marge isn’t exactly talking up a storm, either.”

“Good point.” Ran slapped her foot on the floor to halt the motion of the rocker. “Marge?”

Maggie smiled wanly. “I did read it but not closely. I’m sorry. The last couple of weeks have been stressful.” Suddenly silent Jane. Now Mom and Wren at war. November was getting rougher by the minute.

Julia tutted. “That sucks.”

“Last week was bad for me, too,” Colleen said peevishly. “It was, like, crazy busy.”

“So many Game of Thrones episodes to catch up on,” Hope said drily, “and so little time.”

Colleen made a face.

“How has it been stressful, Marge?” Ran folded her hands against her stomach. “Tell Cousin Ran all about it.”

Maggie plucked at the loose threads on her cardigan’s hem. “You know … mostly family stuff.”

Ran grimaced. “Blech. Family. They’re the worst.” Then she muttered about how her mom had cleaned her room and thrown out the concert ticket stubs that Ran had been saving for her college scrapbook, “not to mention a bunch of other things Mom shouldn’t have been touching in the first place.”

Maggie nodded but only half-listened. She was struggling … fighting a temptation … to tell. To share Jane’s situation and the other crises simmering in and around Aunt Wren’s cabin. These girls—funny and smart and quirky and kind—would almost certainly listen and sympathize, and maybe even offer good advice.

But how could she unburden herself without revealing herself, without becoming again that-girl-who-was-raped? Blowing a sigh, she smoothed the threads along the cardigan’s hem. Better if she just stuck with Marge.

“Margaret Arioli!”

Maggie jerked upright in her chair.

Sam Blake grinned down at her. “Why, if it isn’t Margaret Arioli.” Holding a huge hardcover book at his side, he rocked back on his heels. “Are you proud of me? Margaret. Arioli. I remembered the first and the last.”

Maggie opened her mouth. Closed it.

Of all the times for him to remember her name! Heart pounding, she licked her dry lips and asked faintly, “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” He smiled cheekily. “Book shopping, of course. Dad offered to hang out with Kate today so I could go to the Drexler exhibition at the Albright-Knox. I noticed this place coming back. Thought I’d stop in and check it out.” He looked around admiringly. “It’s cool.” He raised a hand, then strolled out of the reading nook.

Full of dread, Maggie slowly turned to face the girls.