All our summers

Book 2: Yorktide, Maine Novel

by Holly Chamberlin

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Against the picturesque coastal Maine setting that she evokes so well, bestselling author Holly Chamberlin creates a heartfelt story of family bonds and new beginnings ... It came as no surprise to anyone in Yorktide when glamorous Carol Ascher fled the little Maine town for New York City. While Carol found success as an interior designer, her younger sister, Bonnie, stayed behind, embracing marriage and motherhood. She even agreed to take in Carol's teenage daughter during a tumultuous patch. Now both their girls are grown and Bonnie, recently widowed, is anticipating the day she'll retire to Ferndean House, the nineteenth-century family home on the rocky Maine coast. But forty-five years after leaving Yorktide, Carol suddenly announces that she's moving back—into Ferndean. Bonnie is indignant. She's the one who kept the homestead in order and tended to their dying mother. Now Carol expects to simply buy her out? As far as Bonnie is concerned, Ferndean is part of their heritage—not just another of Carol's improvement projects, to be torn apart and remade according to her whim. The entire Ascher family is in flux, uncovering secrets that upend their relationships. Carol's longing to be welcomed home is fueled by a painful truth she's carried for years. It will take an extraordinary summer—in a remarkable place— to lead these women back to each other, buoyed by the tides of friendship and forgiveness.

Release date: June 30, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 482

Sample

It was a beautiful, early summer day in the town of Yorktide, Maine. The temperature was politely hovering around seventy-five, the humidity was low, and the pink and white peonies were in magnificent bloom.

Summer was Bonnie Ascher Elgort’s favorite time of the year. It didn’t matter that she was spending the day at Ferndean House, her family’s homestead, dusting and polishing furniture, vacuuming rugs and draperies, keeping an eye out for spiders, and checking for burned-out lightbulbs. The windows were open and the cooing of a pair of mourning doves filled the air. Life was good.

Bonnie leaned over the deep kitchen sink to scrub at a mark on the backsplash. The motion caused an ache in her shoulder. At sixty-two, Bonnie was heavier than she had ever been. She knew she had lost about half an inch in height; she could see how her shoulders were slightly hunched. It didn’t bother her; she still felt strong, and that was what mattered. Her medium-brown hair had dulled a bit over time, and since her husband Ken’s illness and death it had become threaded with gray. This didn’t trouble Bonnie. She had been told by friends that she had a youthful air about her, though she wasn’t really sure what that meant or if it was important. Probably not.

What really mattered in life was on the inside. Unlike her sister, Carol, Bonnie had never been particularly interested in clothes. It had been years since she had worn a pretty dress and carried a fancy bag, and that had been at the wedding of a friend’s grandson. And, of course, there had been Ken’s funeral a year ago come September. As the grieving widow, form had required her to make a certain appearance and she had, in the only skirt, blouse, and jacket that still fit her. Shoes had been a problem. Her daughter, Julie, had taken her to one of the outlets in Kittery, where after a grueling hour or two they had finally found a pair of tan low-heeled pumps. Bonnie had not worn them since the funeral. Maybe she would wear them to her granddaughter’s high school graduation in a few years.

Bonnie moved from the kitchen into the dining room, where she ran a dustcloth over the carved bits of the massive oak sideboard that held pride of place. It was one of Bonnie’s favorite pieces in the house. No one was quite sure who had brought it to Ferndean or when, but the sideboard had been there as long as Bonnie could remember. Truth be told, almost every single piece of heavy furniture, every knickknack no matter how cracked or otherwise damaged, every painting darkened with age and lack of professional care, every plate and saucer decorated with a pattern long out of fashion, held special meaning for Bonnie.

Which was why it had not been difficult for her to come to a decision about her future. She would sell the cottage in Yorktide in which she and Ken had lived for all of their married lives and move permanently into her family home. Ferndean House had been left equally to Bonnie and Carol by their parents, Shirley and Ronald Ascher, but Carol lived in New York City and had done since she was nineteen. Ferndean meant nothing to Carol Ascher. It meant the world to Bonnie. It was a member of the family. It was alive.

Ferndean House, located at 23 Wolf Lane, was situated on twenty acres of land that boasted a good-size pond (a stop-off for migrating birds in autumn and home to peepers in early spring); monumental oak, pine, and maple trees; and a profusion of native ferns, high and lowbush blueberry bushes, and flowering shrubs such as azalea and rhododendron. The house itself was about three thousand square feet with two floors of rooms and an attic that had formerly served as servants’ quarters. There was a big stone fireplace in the living room; a charming front porch that ran the entire length of the house; a back deck that had been added at some point in the 1940s; a large flower and kitchen garden; and the puzzling remains of a stone structure set at one end of the large lawn that stretched behind the house.

Ferndean had been built by Carol and Bonnie’s great-grandfather for his much younger third wife. He had named the structure after the house in Jane Eyre where Jane and the blind and crippled Mr. Rochester were reunited. The novel—only recently published—had been his wife’s favorite; indeed, it was Bonnie’s favorite novel, too. Marcus and Rosemary’s wedding portrait, taken in June of 1848, still hung in Ferndean’s living room, in what Bonnie had been told was its original frame.

After Shirley Ascher’s death some thirty years earlier, Bonnie and her sister, in a rare instance of accord, had decided to rent the big house during part of the summer season. It would be a good source of income, most of which would go toward the upkeep of the old place. What was left over was pure profit; that profit benefited Bonnie and her family enormously, but Carol, who didn’t need an additional source of income, routinely put her share back into the fund kept for the maintenance of the building and grounds.

Taking up full-time residency at Ferndean House would eliminate the income from seasonal renters, but Bonnie wasn’t concerned. She would have cash from the sale of the cottage. Besides, she was not an extravagant person. Her needs were small, and she was used to living on a tight budget. All would be well going forward.

It would have to be well, Bonnie thought as she left the dining room, because she thoroughly believed that she was entitled to full possession of Ferndean. She was the one who had cared for Shirley Ascher in her dying years. She was the one who had helped to raise Carol’s troubled daughter, Nicola. She was the one who had handled the management and maintenance of the family homestead for the past thirty years.

Who had changed Shirley Ascher’s soiled sheets, prepared her meals, and taken charge of administering her medicines? Who had attended Nicola’s school events from the time she came to live with her aunt in Yorktide? Who had cleaned up when Ferndean’s pipes had burst? Who had mowed the lawn, planted the flowers, harvested the herbs and vegetables? Who had repainted the kitchen and bathrooms every ten years? Who had dealt with the summer tenants—finding them, vetting them, cleaning up after them?

Bonnie fondly patted the curved wooden banister of the grand staircase that led to the second floor. Yes, after all these years as full-time caretaker of her family homestead, Bonnie Ascher Elgort was entitled to be Mistress of Ferndean. It was something she had been dreaming about for a long time, pushing aside Carol’s claim to the house and reigning supreme. But Ken had always held her back from making waves with her sister. Ken, the calm and reasonable husband, the broker of peace, the man who had wholeheartedly accepted Carol’s troubled child into his home. And Carol Ascher hadn’t even had enough respect for such a wonderful man to attend his funeral.

But now that Ken was gone, there was no one to keep Bonnie from achieving her dream. That the dream was largely fueled by ancient sibling rivalry didn’t make it any less desirable. On the contrary, ancient sibling rivalry gave Bonnie’s dream its incredible power.

In the living room now, Bonnie straightened the framed photos that were grouped on a table draped with a yellowed lace cloth. The entire family was represented, from Marcus and Rosemary to Bonnie’s granddaughter, Sophie. Bonnie was especially fond of her parents’ wedding portrait. Both looked so young and so solemn! And here was a photograph of Bonnie and Carol taken when they were quite young, three and six, Bonnie guessed. The girls were wearing bulky snow suits; behind them, Ferndean House, laced with snow, rose in its classic New England majesty. The image was a bittersweet reminder of the happy, almost idyllic childhood the sisters had shared at Ferndean, long before Carol had abandoned her home and her family for fame and fortune in New York City.

The distinct sound of a key in the front door caused Bonnie to turn from the table of photographs. It was probably Nicola, Bonnie thought, though her niece usually knocked before entering when she saw her aunt’s car in the drive.

“Hello!” Bonnie called out as she made her way to the door. She felt a smile come to her face. She always felt like smiling when Nicola was around.

The door creaked loudly as it opened inward and a woman’s figure stepped inside. The dustcloth Bonnie had been holding fell to the floor. She felt her stomach drop along with it. Her right hand went to her heart.

“What are you doing here?” she gasped.

The past few days had been unseasonably warm; heat seemed to rise visibly from the concrete sidewalks and to shimmer in waves above the busy streets. Even though she would be comfortably seated in an air-conditioned, chauffeur-driven town car, Carol was glad she didn’t have to commute from her home on the Upper West Side to her office in Chelsea and back again.

The reason that Carol Ascher was able to avoid the steamy streets of Manhattan was because a month earlier she had sold her business—Ascher Interior Design—to her long-time, dedicated, and very talented junior partner. There was no doubt in Carol’s mind that the company she had birthed and raised would find as much success in the future as it had found in the past. Still, there were several moments each day when Carol effectively forgot that she was no longer at the helm. When she realized with a start that she was no longer needed. When she found herself worrying about things for which she was no longer required to worry.

Carol passed through the hallway that led from her bedroom at one end of the apartment. As was her habit, she glanced at her image in the Art Deco mirror that hung over a black lacquer occasional table just outside the living room. She was pleased with what she saw. She hated that awful term sometimes used to describe a woman who appeared younger than her biological age. Well-preserved. Like a bit of dinosaur bone at the Museum of Natural History. What Carol was, in fact, was well taken care of. She got regular therapeutic massages; attended Pilates and yoga classes; had her hair professionally cut and colored every five weeks; and took her vitamin, calcium, blood pressure, and cholesterol pills as recommended by her doctor. At sixty-five, she was as tall and straight as she had been at nineteen, when she first arrived in New York City.

Even as a child Carol Ascher had instinctively known that appearances were important. As an adult, her wardrobe was highly curated; she favored a small handful of well-established designers. Her jewelry collection was comprised of basics from some of the big houses—Bulgari, Van Cleef & Arpels, Tiffany & Co.—as well as unique creations by several contemporary independent designers. She owned a Hermès bag that had cost more than she guessed her sister, Bonnie, had spent on bags, shoes, and coats in her lifetime. She owned a vintage Cartier diamond ring that had cost almost as much as the four years of Nicola’s college tuition.

Like most responsible parents, Carol intended to leave the bulk of her estate to her child. But given the kind of woman Nicola had become since moving in with her aunt and uncle ten years earlier, Carol highly doubted that she would get any pleasure from the Hermès bag, the Cartier ring, or the Chanel suits. The paintings and sculptures she might admire. But maybe not. In many ways, Nicola Ascher had become a stranger to her mother.

With that in mind, Carol had begun to consider that it might be worth leaving a few of the precious or particularly meaningful items originally intended for Nicola to someone who would truly enjoy them. It was at this point that she met an impediment. She had no godchild. She was not close to the children of her acquaintances or colleagues. As for the other members of her family, well, with the possible exception of her seventy-year-old cousin, Judith, there was no one who appreciated good design and craftsmanship like she did.

Carol was bothered when she realized this. It was human nature to want to leave a legacy, to pass along a skill, a passion, a treasured object to a person you cared about. There was, of course, her former junior partner, now owner of Ascher Interior Design. But the truth was that Carol and Ana had never been close outside of the office. Carol had wanted it that way.

From the living room, Carol passed into the library. It was her favorite room in the apartment, light and airy in spite of the thousands of books, the carefully selected objets d’art, and the grand piano that had once belonged to one of the most prestigious of Old New York families. This morning, however, only one item was of interest to Carol. She picked up a card that sat on the three-legged, marble-topped table by one of the windows. The card was a note from a client and her husband, expressing gratitude for Carol’s having made a generous donation to the research foundation seeking a cure for the childhood illness that had recently taken their seven-year-old son.

The boy’s death had hit Carol hard. Very hard, even though she had met little Jonathan only once. Jonathan had been a charmer. Bright, socially adept, physically beautiful. His death—untimely, unfair, ghastly—had brought home to Carol with the force of a thunderclap the fact of her relative isolation in the world. Forget about who would cherish her possessions after her death. The more important question was: Who would mourn her?

Because this vital question had been haunting her for weeks, Carol had finally decided it was time to make peace with her family. That might be easier said than done. Carol had not heard from Nicola since a phone call Christmas morning. Nicola’s tone had been markedly cold. And there had been a sharp decline in Bonnie’s correspondence since Ken’s death the previous September. Carol had not been able to attend the funeral; she had been in India on business. Maybe she should have visited her sister upon her return to the States.

But she hadn’t.

Well, Carol thought, returning the card of thanks to the marble-topped table, she was going home now. To Yorktide. Better late than never.

Still, she had yet to put her apartment on the market, though she knew Realtors would eagerly line up for the chance to sell the home of famous interior designer Carol Ascher, a perfectly appointed, nine-room apartment with views of Central Park.

The reason for her procrastination was both simple and not so simple. Nicola’s bedroom. Everything in the room was exactly as it had been the day Nicola had gone to live with her aunt in Maine. To dismantle the room would be in some way dismantling the most precious part of Carol’s past. Nicola’s childhood.

Carol straightened her already-straight shoulders and briskly banished the mood of melancholy that was suddenly threatening to overwhelm her. She would sell the apartment as soon as possible. A person was more important than four walls and a jumbled assortment of dolls, board games, and sparkly headbands.

Nothing would stand in the way of her homecoming, Carol thought as she strode from the library to her home office, not even her family’s possible—probable?—refusal to see her if they were given advance warning. To that end, Carol had decided to show up in Yorktide unannounced, where Ferndean House, the family homestead, awaited. Carol still had a key. And the house was currently empty; for some unfathomable reason, Bonnie hadn’t booked summer renters yet. But that was perfect; the sooner Carol could get started with major renovations on the old place the better. For all she knew parts of the building were structurally unsound, in spite of her brother-in-law’s assurance that Ferndean continued to pass inspections.

Carol sat at her desk and opened her laptop. She was fully aware that taking your enemy by surprise might be considered a power play.

Enemy? Carol frowned. That was the wrong word. Adversary? That was a bit harsh, too. Well, whatever the term, Carol expected some resistance to the idea of her occupying Ferndean House. Bonnie could be contrary where Carol was concerned, but that didn’t really worry her. Once Bonnie heard her sister’s more than generous offer for her share of the Victorian wreck that had been left to the Ascher girls, she would happily sign on the dotted line.

Successful, wealthy, universally admired businessperson that she was, Carol Ascher was sure of it.

Gilbert Way was one of the least attractive streets in Yorktide. It was on the very outskirts of the town, a generally forgotten area occupied by the poorest of the community. Nicola Ascher’s apartment was on the third floor of what had once been a rooming house. The original wooden building had been re-covered with vinyl siding. The small front porch felt loosely attached to the structure. Her apartment, one of seven in the building, was reached by two sets of steep, narrow wooden stairs that smelled suspiciously of mold. The landing outside her apartment was grim. The floors were badly in need of refinishing; her neighbor was in the habit of piling all of his shoes and boots in a heap next to his door; and every so often there was a vague smell of rotting food emanating, it seemed, from the walls themselves.

All of the tenants at number 35 were young and either just starting out in their careers or not much concerned with a career at all. Most were living alone. The guy in the apartment just above Nicola’s liked to throw weeknight parties that involved insanely loud techno-pop. After a third incident, Nicola had approached him and asked that the next time he gave a party he be aware that some of his neighbors had to get up early for work. That had done the trick. For a while.

Nicola would not easily forget the first time her aunt and uncle had seen the apartment on Gilbert Way. They had not been happy about their beloved niece living in such a rough and tumble place. When Ken died the previous September, Bonnie had suggested that Nicola move back into the cottage. Though grateful, and sympathetic of her aunt’s sudden loneliness, Nicola had declined. She needed to maintain a degree of independence. She was, after all, twenty-five years old.

She had done her best to make the apartment attractive, but she was no interior designer like her mother. She had been happy enough to decorate the tiny apartment with hand-me-downs, a few posters she had had since college, and a selection of framed photos of her family. There was a photo of her aunt Bonnie and her uncle Ken taken at last year’s Fourth of July party at Ferndean House. There was a portrait of her cousin Julie, Julie’s husband, Scott, and their daughter, Sophie, taken at the mall one Christmas season when Sophie was a toddler. There was a photo of her aunt’s cousin Judith taken at Nicola’s high school graduation. There were no photos of her mother.

Nicola walked from the tiny kitchen area to the tiny living area, glancing as she did at the antique silvered mirror that hung on the wall. The mirror had been a great flea market find. The image reflected back at Nicola wasn’t clear, but it didn’t need to be. Nicola knew well enough what she looked like. Her eyes were not her mother’s famously steely gray ones. Presumably she had inherited her brown eyes from her nameless and faceless father. Her hair was light brown; she often cut it herself. Given the nature of her job as a social worker at Pine Hill Residence for the Elderly—and her own preference—she regularly wore clothes that were serviceable rather than attractive. When she thought about the last year she had lived in New York—which she rarely did—she was always surprised to recall her near obsession with the latest fad in clothing and bags and shoes. She knew now that her interest hadn’t really been in those popular items but in the popular kids who were the first to wear them. What a waste of time and money! Then again, she had only been a child.

Like her mother—and presumably her father, that unknown sperm donor—Nicola was tall and slim. She wasn’t what her aunt Bonnie would call a man magnet, but she did attract a fair amount of male attention, most of which she deflected almost unconsciously. Rarely was her interest aroused and when it was, it didn’t last for long. In fact, Nicola had been in only one long-term romantic relationship. She wasn’t a virgin. But she wasn’t experienced, either. She had never dreamed about marrying. Falling in love—maybe. That was probably inevitable. Like death and taxes, things you just couldn’t escape, but hopefully more pleasant than either.

Nicola Ascher got along well with just about everybody. There were members of her circle of coworkers, former classmates, and neighbors with whom she was friendly, even, at times, briefly confidential. But as for an intimate friend, there was no one. And that was okay. Nicola genuinely liked people. It was one of the reasons she had gone into social work. She just didn’t need one particular person to be at her side—literally or virtually—at all times.

In short, she wasn’t unhappy. Still, for the past few months she had felt that there was something else she could be doing, another way in which she could be helping others and leading a productive life. The answer, Nicola thought, might be the Peace Corps. And she had decided she would like to be stationed in Ukraine. She couldn’t explain her preference other than the fact that she felt instinctually drawn to the culture and history of Eastern Europe. The more she read, the more interested she became.

Her aunt Bonnie had frowned at this. “It could be terribly dangerous,” she said.

“The Peace Corps educates you about the region you’re being posted to,” Nicola had told her. “There can be risks, but people need help.”

“But you’re needed here,” Bonnie had pointed out, her distress evident. “You do such important work at Pine Hill. And . . . and I need you. We all do, Julie and Sophie, too, especially now that Ken is gone and Scott . . . Well, with the troubles in the marriage.”

“I’m aware of how my absence might affect my family,” Nicola had replied carefully. “But I can’t feel guilty for wanting to move on and do something for the greater good. You’ll be fine, Aunt Bonnie. I know you will. Besides, I’ll be back in two years and we’ll be in touch as often as possible, I promise.”

Assuming, of course, that Nicola went through with the notion. In truth, while the idea of service attracted her, sometimes she wondered if her motives for wanting to help others were entirely pure. Everyone knew that when you helped another person you often felt good about yourself as a result. That was selfish, but not the bad kind of selfish. But what if she was so insistent on being of service to others as a sort of rebuke to her mother, that supremely self-centered woman who had abandoned her own child in her moment of crisis? Could Nicola have some sort of saint complex, the need to prove to the world that she was better, more self-sacrificing than the average person? Was she ever smug about her intention of joining the Peace Corps?

No. She didn’t think that she was. She hoped that she wasn’t. And if she did ever act obnoxiously, who would tell her the truth? She hoped that someone would, though her aunt Bonnie did tend to coddle her, and Julie never said a critical word to anyone, no matter how justified. Judith. Judith would call her on bad behavior, Nicola thought. It was something she managed to do with the people she cared about without alienating them in the process.

Nicola’s cell phone chirped; it was the tone she had chosen for Bonnie.

“Hi,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Your mother has come home.”

“Who?” Nicola replied senselessly. “Wait. What do you mean? Yorktide isn’t my mother’s home.”

“Tell that to her.” Her aunt’s voice cracked as if she was struggling not to cry. “She’s moved into Ferndean House. Nicola, you have to help me. I don’t know what to do.”

The Millers’ house on Thames Road was small, not much larger than the cottage in which Julie had grown up, but it had always suited her just fine. She and Scott had managed to buy it only a few years into their marriage. They had scrimped and saved to come up with a decent down payment. Julie would never forget the day they closed on the house. Next to her wedding and the birth of her daughter, it was the most momentous occasion of her life.

Now, almost eighteen years later, on this early summer afternoon, Julie Miller found herself wandering from the living room to the kitchen, from upstairs to downstairs, noting her surroundings with something akin to surprise. It was almost as if she was in a stranger’s home. Or, as if Julie was the stranger in her own home. She felt disoriented.

Julie Miller, the forty-two-year old daughter of Bonnie and Ken Elgort, was about five feet three inches tall. She had dark brown hair, which she wore in a bob. If she could, she would live in jeans, sweatshirts, and sneakers, but for work she made the concession of dressing like the responsible adult she was paid to be. Still, managing a group of five-year-olds for several hours a day required low heels, fabrics that could be sponged clean or tossed in the washing machine, and absolutely no dangling jewelry. Aside from a watch, the only other bit of jewelry Julie regularly wore was her wedding ring, a plain gold band.

Julie was not pretty; her personality, her intelligence, and her good heart were her strong points. Early in her relationship with Scott she had wondered what he could possibly see in her, the ugly duckling to his swan. But she had gotten past that insecurity, convinced by his words and actions that he was in love with her precisely because she was who she was.

These days Julie wasn’t convinced of anything other than that her life was a mess.

The summer months stretched out painfully empty before her. True, there was the three-session workshop headed by the principal of Yorktide’s grammar school, to which she had committed ages ago. Still, time seemed Julie’s enemy. In past summers, she had taken part-time jobs, waiting tables at one of the big family-style restaurants along Route 1 or working as a sales assistant at a seasonal shop in Ogunquit, but this year she had made no effort to look for employment. It was irresponsible. But Julie felt stuck.

Julie was stuck.

And she was lonely. She and Aggie, her best friend, were not in a good place at the moment. They had known each other since kindergarten and had gone through grammar, middle, and high school together. Aggie had attended a college in New Hampshire while Julie had earned her degree at the University of Maine, but they had remained close. Julie had been Aggie’s maid of honor and Aggie had been hers. When Aggie’s first child was born prematurely, Julie had stationed herself at the hospital both day and night until little Colleen was ready to go home.

But then something nasty and vile had come between them. Julie’s husband, Scott, had cheated on her, not with Aggie, but Aggie had known about the infidelity—at least she had heard rumors—and had failed to tell Julie. That act of betrayal had destroyed a relationship that had been born close to forty years before.

No job. No best friend. And certainly no summer getaways. Should Scott, for some unfathomable reason, suggest a camping trip in Acadia National Park or even a weekend in Booth Bay, Julie would have no choice but to refuse. The entire town of Yorktide would be waiting eagerly to witness the results of the vacation. Had the couple reconciled, or was Julie Miller still refusing to forgive and forget her husband’s transgression?

At least fifteen-year-old Sophie had an exciting summer to look forward to, Julie thought, as she continued her slow ramble through the house. Sophie had gotten a job as a counselor at a local day camp. It paid very little, but it kept her busy three days of the week. How good she was with the children, Julie didn’t know; probably not very. Sophie had never shown any great interest in children. The real draw of the job for Sophie was the opportunity to hang out with other teens, several of whom lived in neighboring towns. Julie had heard her daughter mention a few names she didn’t recognize as Sophie’s classmates, all of whom Sophie had known since first grade. There was a Tom, or maybe it was Tim. He was a few years older than Sophie. And some girl named Stacy. Maybe another boy; Julie couldn’t recall and when she remembered to ask Sophie about her fellow counselors, Sophie was typically uncommunicative. “They’re fine.” “They’re okay.”

Julie never pressed. Sophie was a good kid and besides, if she had a problem with one of her coworkers she would come to her mother. Or she would go to her grandmother or to Nicola. Sophie was fine.

It was her mother who was not fine.

Julie was depressed and it showed. She had forgotten about her last hair appointment and hadn’t bothered to make another. She had gained weight. She was still gaining weight. She felt sluggish but had no energy to do anything about it. She hadn’t been for a hike in weeks. The last time she had been on her bike had been back in the spring. The bike was propped against a wall of the garage. The tires needed air.

There was more. The house was getting out of control. Julie wandered over to the foot of the stairs that led to the second floor and picked up a crumpled T-shirt draped over the banister. It was Sophie’s and it was dirty. When had Julie last done laundry? When had she la