Gladys sat back and folded her arms. “That is such a typical Dottie answer.”

“Do you want a different one? Because that’s the only one I’ve got.”

Margaret laid her head against the rear window and listened to their back-and-forth.

What would John think of Dottie’s newfound domesticity? She missed him every single day, though the sting diminished bit by bit. It was a strange thing to rejoice for your friend and how her life turned out and yet remain so brokenhearted at the tragedy that had led to it.

Was there such a thing as perfect happiness? Or did it always come laced with some tragedy? Some shoe that would drop as soon as you’d captured it?

Would we even recognize perfect happiness if it existed without suffering its opposite?

Rain always put her in a philosophical mood. As did William’s letters. She’d just received a postcard from him while he was in Paris. Love, William, it had said. Two words that made her heart leap. And yet, she didn’t quite trust the feeling.

Joy and sorrow were like seats on a playground teeter-totter.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

What would be extracted from her now that she seemed to have won William’s heart?

The rain began to beat down in a deluge, so Dottie turned her headlights on as they slugged along and flipped the lever for windshield wipers that did not seem up to the task. Margaret could see that she was gripping the steering wheel tightly as they tried to avoid sliding around while they made their way toward the final blocks to her house. She must feel especially harried since she hadn’t been driving for very long.

At last, they pulled up and she inched the car into the driveway.

“There’s an umbrella underneath your seat, Margaret. You and Gladys can use that one. I have one near my door here. Hold on tight—I think they could blow away in this wind!”

“Did buying a brand-new car mean that you couldn’t afford a third umbrella?”

Of course, Gladys would have something snappy to say. Margaret reached to the front and poked her in the rib cage. Sometimes she didn’t know when to put the kidding to rest.

They slid out, the wind shutting the doors behind them with a slam, and scurried up the slippery steps to the white house on Shore Road.

Margaret shook the umbrella out on the covered porch, a futile effort since the rain was blowing on them anyway. The house was built on a steep hill, so when she turned around for a quick look back, she could see above the tree line and across the water. The whole sky was draped in darkness, and the waters of the bay beneath it formed agitated whitecaps.