Summer Roommates

Book 1: Yorktide, Maine Novel

by Holly Chamberlin

Genres: Family Life; Friendship; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A summer beach read with heart and substance, this poignant novel will delight fans of Elin Hildebrand, Nancy Thayer, and Shelley Noble, as four older women who are strangers to each other share a house for the summer in the picturesque Maine town of Yorktide.
 
Sandra Pennington has lived through enough Maine winters to know how long they can be. Even in April, Yorktide is chilly and muddy, adding to Sandra’s pangs of loneliness. It’s been five years since her husband died, her dearest friend is in a care facility, her children are grown, and the big house is suddenly terribly empty. But Sandra has a plan: to rent out three bedrooms and set up a summer bed and breakfast of sorts.
 
There will be challenges, of course, and Sandra’s daughter is concerned. But Sandra is eager to try and build a community of like-minded, mature women for companionship and support. Soon, one by one, her chosen housemates arrive . . .
 
Mary, recently retired, is ready to discard her tough lawyer façade. Patty refuses to reveal—or act—her age, but beneath her flightiness lies a deep vulnerability. High-school teacher Amanda feels uncertain about where her long-term relationship is going. But surely it’s too late now to change course?
 
Over arguments and laughter, these very different women get to know each other—and themselves. And while summer is always too short, there’ll be time enough for reinvention, reflection—and realizing it’s never too late to keep growing, changing—and making new friends . . .
 
Praise for the novels of Holly Chamberlin
 
“A great summer read but with substance. It will find a wide audience in its exploration of sisterhood, family, and loss.” —Library Journal on Summer with My Sisters

“Nostalgia over real-life friendships lost and regained pulls readers into the story.”
—USA Today on Summer Friends
 

Release date: June 27, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 448

Sample

“When will they get here, Clovis?”

Clovis, not being of the human species, didn’t reply in words but bumped his large feline head against Sandra’s calf.

“Oh, I know,” Sandra said with a smile. “They’ll get here when they get here. But I can’t help being impatient.”

Sandra Pennington stood at one of the windows in the living room, watching the road, awaiting the arrival of three total strangers. Three total strangers who were to spend the summer living in her home. Even though contracts had been signed weeks ago, everything settled and prepared, the idea still seemed strange to Sandra. Strange and somewhat frightening.

The two-story house, number 12 Spruce Street in Yorktide, Maine, was certainly large enough to accommodate four women comfortably. It was of a type commonly seen throughout New England. White clapboard, dark green shutters, front porch large enough for four wicker armchairs, two small tables perfect for setting down drinks or books, and a big ceramic pot of seasonal flowers. In the winter, a wreath made of pine boughs hung on the front door, surrounding the brass knocker. In the summer, a wreath made from dried flowers took its place. Behind the house spread a green lawn with an herb and flower garden in one corner. There was a small gardening shed and a two-car garage, both added during Sandra’s long marriage.

Indeed, Sandra Pennington had lived at number 12 Spruce Street for most of her life, first as a young bride, then as mother of two children, and now, as a widow.

At seventy-four, Sandra still stood at a slim five feet eight inches tall. Her hair, naturally blond though helped along by a L’Oréal product, was cut in a neat bob that came to about an inch below her ears. Her eyes were dark blue. After successful cataract surgery when she was in her early sixties, she had been able to put aside the glasses she had worn since the age of nine.

Her clothing style was classic and simple, though she loved to wear color, especially blues and greens. Her jewelry collection, though not extensive, contained a few very good pieces that had been passed down through her husband’s family. She always wore her wedding ring, a wide yellow-gold eternity band set with colorless diamonds. Sandra had a native dignity; her bearing was almost regal. People often compared her to Grace Kelly, or Slim Keith, one of Truman Capote’s so-called swans. Sandra had never paid much attention to the implied compliments, unless they had been delivered by her beloved husband, John.

Sandra and John had had a very happy marriage. Sandra knew that she was one of the lucky ones. She had, in fact, married her best friend. They had been true partners in life, never really imagining that they would ever be apart. That is, not until John was diagnosed with heart disease only months before his death from a massive coronary. His unsuspected illness, and of course the fear of an impending death, had come as a brutal shock to the couple. They had made it a point to talk about what lay ahead for Sandra when her husband was gone, and together they had come to terms (at least, they had tried to) with the situation. Still, five years after John’s death, his absence could feel surprisingly cruel.

In fact, loneliness had become a too constant companion these past few months, and Sandra’s mood had only been intensified by the ridiculously long Maine winter. March came in like a lion and went out like a tiger. April might be called the cruelest month, with its surprise snowfalls and sharp as a knife winds, but May could be unpleasant, too, with the temperature refusing to rise above the low fifties and occasionally dipping down to freezing point.

Sandra knew she wasn’t alone in feeling depressed by the weather conditions. Each year, desperate for light and warmth, friends reported to friends their sightings of the first robin, the first forsythia bushes in bloom, the first scent of wild mayflowers in the air. The appearance of a snowdrop, or of a yellow crocus poking through the dark soil could bring a tear to the eye. It was difficult to describe to a person who didn’t live in a northern clime the excitement surrounding the switching out of wool sweaters for cotton sweaters; the putting away of mittens if not yet of gloves; the trading in of one’s fur-lined wool hat for a baseball-style cap. It was a genuinely giddy feeling, the realization that winter was finally over—at least for now—and that spring, that great tease, had truly arrived.

It was during this grim and dreary time before the hint of warmer temperatures and brighter days that Sandra, already lonely for John’s companionship, had also badly felt the loss of her dearest friend of many years, Emma Nelson. Two years earlier, Emma had been diagnosed with dementia. The disease had progressed rapidly. The previous autumn, Emma, no longer able to care for herself, had gone to live with her daughter in a suburb of Chicago. In January, Millie had had no choice but to install her mother in a nursing facility with a memory care unit. These days, when Sandra spoke to her old friend via FaceTime, sessions arranged and organized by Millie, it was most likely that Emma wouldn’t know Sandra, or that Emma would ask after old friends and neighbors long gone. Sometimes she exhibited symptoms of extreme frustration and at other times, terrible, directionless anger. To witness Emma in this state was heartbreaking. It was worse than heartbreaking, Sandra had decided. It was terrifying.

Who were you, Sandra wondered, when the people who knew you best were gone, dead or trapped in a living hell? Where or what was the self when it was no longer known by others? Did a person only really or fully exist in relation to other people? How much was self-knowledge worth if there was no one with whom you could be yourself ?

Questions like these, unanswerable and exhausting, had troubled Sandra too often during the past, dreary months.

And then, one day in mid-April, she had happened upon an article in a national newspaper about a growing phenomenon in the United States as well as in parts of Europe. It was called co-living. Adults taking on roommates or housemates after divorce or after having lost a partner or even after years of having lived on their own. Co-living, it had been proved, had both financial and emotional benefits.

The idea had struck a chord with Sandra, and without much hesitation she had decided to undertake an experiment of her own in the realm of co-living. She would rent out her three extra bedrooms for the summer and see how she felt about living under the same roof with strangers, who, it was to be hoped, might not remain strangers as the summer progressed. She would try to get to know these three women—they would have to be women—and maybe even mention the idea of a permanent household of women, see if anyone was enthusiastic about the possibilities.

If the experiment was a disaster, if dissension among the women was a constant rather than an occasional thing, well, so be it. She could survive the summer. She had survived far worse than squabbling. Besides, trial and error was the only way to learn. And loneliness was not fun.

With some trepidation, Sandra had told her son and daughter about her projected summer experiment. Jack had been keen; he didn’t relish the idea of his mother being alone so much and thought the benefit of companionship would outweigh most anything negative that might occur.

Kate, however, a lawyer as her father had been, had reservations. She was worried that strangers might take advantage of her mother. Sandra didn’t need the additional income. Why would she choose to take on the responsibilities involved in being the host of what was essentially a sort of bed-and-breakfast? And by the way, was she properly insured against injuries to the renters caused by, say, a broken stair rail or faulty wiring? Sandra should speak to her homeowner’s insurance representative. To Kate, welcoming strangers into one’s home seemed like an unnecessary and potentially dangerous undertaking. If Sandra did, however, insist on going ahead with her scheme, she should at the very least get herself a good real estate agent who specialized in short-term rentals and other such arrangements.

A bit reluctantly, Sandra had admitted that she had no idea of what she was doing in terms of the business end of things. For example, as a landlord, even a short-term landlord, could she legally stipulate that a renter had to be over the age of fifty? Of course, there would have to be a screening process, for the safety of everyone involved. Did summer renters have specific legal rights that differed from the rights of renters who signed long-term lease agreements? Was she allowed to set rules as specific as “must use a coaster” and “person who finishes roll of toilet paper must replace it”? The renters would not be children; how much could or should she assume about their domestic habits? No hot plates in bedrooms. Kitchen off-limits at certain times. Food in fridge must be labeled. Was it wise to count on a certain level of maturity in the women who would be sharing her home? Maybe it was best not to assume anything.

The questions went on. Was it legal to reject someone with a criminal record? Was it legal to reject someone because she smoked? Sandra was pretty sure that as the homeowner she could ban smoking in the house and on the property, but was it okay on a moral basis to refuse to let someone who smoked live in her home? Certainly, she could allow no recreational drug use on the property. It was just too risky. Everyone would agree with that. But wait. The use of cannabis for pleasure or to help relieve pain was legal in Maine. Still, as the homeowner, didn’t she have the final say?

Finally, after a week of fretting, Sandra had gathered her wits, and marshaled her courage. She was in charge. She owned the house. She was intelligent and strong and resourceful. And, she knew without a doubt that John was encouraging her to take this chance. John had believed in her a hundred percent, and he still did. Sandra was sure of that.

Taking Kate’s advice, Sandra had found a real estate agent, a woman with an excellent reputation in Yorktide, and scheduled a preliminary meeting. Marcia Livingston was a no-nonsense sort of person who had imparted information as well as advice in a clear and straightforward manner. Sandra was impressed. Marcia put out the word. Applications began to flow in. With her expertise, Marcia handled the initial vetting of the applications received and presented Sandra with strong candidates for review. “My screening process is rigorous,” Marcia had assured her. “Any of these women would be a safe bet.”

At first, Sandra had found it difficult to choose among the potential roommates. Somehow, the process felt discriminatory; indeed, it was a matter of passing judgment. Several times she had to remind herself that first and foremost this was a business venture, if also, hopefully, the planting of the seeds of friendship.

Finally, the selection had been made.

Mary Fraser was a recently retired lawyer, single, in her early sixties, from New York City. Her credit was impeccable. Her references, one from a former partner in her firm, another from an attorney with whom she had teamed up on occasion, were glowing. She would be occupying the largest bedroom.

Amanda Irving, in her late fifties, was from the Boston area where she taught history and social studies at a private school. Her references emphasized her reliability and trustworthiness and general amiability. She would be in the second largest room.

The third woman who would be sharing Sandra’s home this summer had not been one of her initial choices. When the woman Sandra had chosen to occupy the smallest and therefore the least expensive of the bedrooms had canceled at the last minute due to ill health, somehow Patty Porter’s application had slipped through Marcia’s usually vigilant screening process and landed in Sandra’s hands.

Something about the woman’s application had touched Sandra. She couldn’t say why, exactly, but her gut instinct told her that Patty Porter, a single, retired low-level office assistant from a small town in Massachusetts, who gave her age as “sixty-plus,” should be the third guest. Marcia Livingston had strongly advised Sandra not to accept Ms. Porter—her credit history was not good and her references were both from family members, and therefore not entirely to be trusted—but Sandra had held firm. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Marcia had said with a frown.

Sandra hoped so, too. She hadn’t felt so excited, in a nervous sort of way, in years.

In preparation for her summer roommates, Sandra had hired a local cleaning service to scour the house top to bottom. That morning she had placed fresh flowers in each woman’s bedroom. There were new sheets on the beds and new towels in the bathrooms. Maybe fresh flowers and new bedding weren’t strictly necessary, but Sandra wanted to show her summer companions that they were indeed welcome. She wanted to introduce them to a house that might come to feel a bit like a home before long.

Sandra leaned closer to the window. A car had turned onto Spruce Street and was moving toward number 12. She could just make out the New York plates. It must be Mary Fraser.

“Here we go, Clovis,” she said to her loyal feline companion, still standing at her side. “Get ready to say hello to our summer roommates.”

One hour earlier . . .

Sixty-three-year-old Mary Fraser sat with her hands firmly on the wheel of her car, heading north. She had reached her full height of five feet and eleven inches by the time she was fifteen. Since the age of forty she had worn her hair in a smart pixie cut. She loved jewelry, and her collection, amassed over years, was fairly eclectic. Her clothes were expensive and well made; she preferred black, white, tan, and taupe but wasn’t opposed to an occasional pop of Kelly green or red or, lately, lilac.

Mary was not unaware of her sagging jawline but was too proud to go for plastic surgery. Some of the greatest people through history had sported jowls. Winston Churchill. Alfred Hitchcock. Queen Victoria. The wonderful British actress Margaret Rutherford. Who was Mary to complain of being in such august company? Besides, she was physically fit. She carried her own groceries, did her own housework, and every afternoon she took a two-hour walk.

Fifteen years earlier, she had bought a small but charming apartment in New York’s West Village. The best thing about the ground-floor apartment was its backyard, which Mary enjoyed in all weathers. She was a regular at the secondhand bookshops in the neighborhood and spent a good deal of time at art galleries throughout the city. Over the years, Mary had amassed a small but important collection of paintings by contemporary artists. One of her most prized possessions was a painting by Jacqueline Humphries, an American abstract painter whose work was in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art in New York as well as the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

The very opposite of a competent cook, Mary subsisted on takeout and also had her favorite restaurants. She had dinner at Chez Etienne every Wednesday evening—they did a wonderful moules et frites—and every Saturday morning she had her breakfast at a classic coffee shop just around the corner from her home. Her cell phone kept her company at these solitary meals. Mary was a bit of an information addict, if one could be a bit of an addict.

Since retiring a few months earlier, Mary had found herself having nothing to do. Nothing important, that was. It was a perfect moment to trade an unpleasant summer in the city for a pleasant summer by the sea. The Hamptons were out; Mary couldn’t stand the pretense rampant in that part of New York. She had been to Cape Cod and to Martha’s Vineyard several times in her life—both also overrun in tourist season—but she had never been to Maine. This summer seemed like a perfect time to remedy that.

On a website that specialized in vacations for single adult women, Mary had found what seemed to be a very nice situation. She had heard back from the rental agent, a Marcia Livingston at the Sutter-Black Agency, only two days after having sent her references and credit history. Mrs. Sandra Pennington of Yorktide, a small town in southern Maine, would be happy to share her home with Ms. Fraser.

Mary, who had been married once for about a minute, had otherwise never had a housemate. The arrangement this summer would be a challenge, but she had faced much larger challenges in her life. Much larger. Besides, she could afford to break the nonrefundable rental agreement if she was really and truly miserable, and retreat back to her apartment in the West Village.

At the moment, Mary was seated comfortably behind the wheel of her car, a Subaru Legacy, on her way to Yorktide, that small coastal town where she was booked to spend the summer at Ms. Pennington’s hybrid bed-and-breakfast. A summer that, she hoped, might help to restore at least some of her former get-up-and-go which had, in no uncertain terms, gotten up and gone.

Mary Fraser had always known herself to be pretty tough and unflappable; she had been that way since childhood. But since her dear friend Judy’s sudden and tragic death almost a year ago, right after the trauma of Mary’s firm being sued for malpractice, she had been feeling decidedly tired, emotional, on edge. And dare she admit it? Vulnerable.

The strain of the lawsuit had taken its toll on everyone involved, from Mary’s partners to the administrative staff. Mary had been worried that they would lose everything they had worked to achieve. Knowing you were innocent, even having it proved in a court of law, didn’t mean that other people were necessarily going to believe in your innocence.

In the end, the firm was fully exonerated, but the emotional damage she had suffered as a result of her friend’s terrible death, added to the stress that had been occasioned by the lawsuit, had made it easy to decide that it was time to retire. To sneak away and lick her wounds? Maybe, a little.

Literally, every one of her colleagues had been surprised and puzzled by her retiring, and some continued to question her decision, months after Mary Fraser had walked out of the office for the last time.

I just can’t see you retired! What are you going to do all day? Watch television?

You, of all people. I always assumed you’d die at your desk one day, probably in your late nineties, pen clutched in your bony fingers.

Oh, my God, you are going to be beyond bored. You’ll have to get yourself a few serious hobbies, pronto!

This questioning and commenting annoyed Mary, largely because she had quickly come to realize that she was in fact not a hundred percent certain she had made the right choice in retiring. Her colleagues’ questions were merely echoing her own unasked questions or, rather, questions she might have answered unsatisfactorily.

One of those unnecessarily large SUVs shot into Mary’s lane just ahead of her.

“Where did you get your license? Sears?” she muttered, leaning on her horn. “Idiot.”

She looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. If traffic didn’t unexpectedly snarl, she would reach the state of Maine in about an hour. The Way Life Should Be.

That was still to be seen.

Patty Porter was about five feet four inches; at least, that was what she had been at her last visit to her primary care physician. When had a person’s GP become their PCP? Anyway, she might have shrunk since then as that appointment had been more than four years ago. Patty hated going to the doctor. They always found something wrong with you, something you would never have known was a problem otherwise, and once you knew you were sick, how could you avoid worrying? Worrying meant stress, which led to being unhappy. Patty liked to be happy, though increasingly being happy was a struggle.

She knew that she was a bit plump, but it suited her. It always had, though she had spent much of her life carefully watching her weight. She also knew that she was pretty, or that she had been. She had what people called “good bones,” and her skin was still unlined. Her eyes were bright blue, the kind that got attention. Her hair was naturally almost black though for the past ten years or so gray had been creeping in, so she had taken to dyeing it. She couldn’t afford visits to a hair salon, not these days, so she used a product she got at the supermarket. She didn’t think her hair looked too bad, though every so often the flat blackness of it startled her.

Patty liked to dress up and loved wearing bright colors. Her nails were always painted hot pink or vivid purple or, at Christmas time, deep red. Sadly, she couldn’t walk in heels anymore, but what could you do about that?

Anyway, heels weren’t the best choice for driving, especially not all the way to Yorktide, Maine. The car was a twelve-year-old Honda Civic. It belonged to her brother-in-law Kevin, and he had kept it in excellent condition. Just before Patty had headed out on her adventure, Bridget, her older sister, had once again reminded Patty that she needed to take good care of the car she was borrowing from Teri and Kevin for the summer. As if Patty could forget. Patty was a good driver, in spite of the fact that she had never owned a car.

Maybe that made Patty unusual these days, like the fact that she had never owned a smartphone, either. Her pay-as-you-go phone was getting on three years old. Patty tried to be careful with her minutes. As her sisters, Bridget and Teri, never tired of reminding her, minutes cost money. The problem was that Patty tended to forget to buy more minutes before she had totally depleted the ones she currently had. She would have to be very careful not to mess up this summer. She was going to be living with strangers; she could hardly ask to borrow a stranger’s phone.

Living with strangers. In all of her life Patty had never imagined that she would decide to set out on her own for an entire summer in a place she didn’t know and with people she had never met! But in a way, she had had no choice.

Earlier that year, Patty had been compelled for financial reasons to leave her life in a lively suburb near Boston for the small town in New Hampshire where she knew barely anyone. It was true that she had been visiting her sisters for years, but visiting a place was very different from living in it. Sleeping night after night in Bridget and Ed’s tiny spare bedroom, with her clothes stuffed into the tiny closet, and her collection of fairy figurines in cardboard boxes in the basement, well, it all made Patty feel like an outsider, an unwelcome guest, like every minute she had to apologize for being an inconvenience.

Life at her sister’s house quickly became very depressing. Patty knew she had to get away or she would burst. She didn’t like using the Internet, but figured that it was probably the best if not the only way she could find the sort of thing she was looking for. An escape. And she had, on a website that advertised vacation ideas for older women. One option in particular had jumped out at Patty, and she had sent off her application with high hopes. But almost immediately, she had heard from the Sutter-Black Agency that her application had been rejected. The agent said that the owner had already filled the house, but Patty had known in her gut that she had been turned down because her credit was so bad. Her references were from her sisters—she had no one else to ask—so it couldn’t have been the references that got her rejected. She’s a very nice person, always pleasant. Nice to be around. Nice personality.

Patty had felt seriously disappointed. She had so been hoping to be accepted by Mrs. Sandra Pennington as a summer renter. Mrs. Sandra Pennington. It sounded like the name of someone important, not like Patty Porter. Patricia Porter sounded better, more serious, but no one called her by her full name. She herself hadn’t used it in years.

And then came the afternoon when everything had suddenly changed for the better. Only that morning there had been yet another tense conversation with Bridget about Patty’s future.

“How do you propose to contribute to the expenses here?” Bridget had demanded. “We can’t afford to pay for everything, you know. You have to stop spending what little money you have on clothes and silly things like that sparkly pocket mirror you came home with yesterday. You have to grow up. For God’s sake, Patty, you’re going to be seventy years old in December. Isn’t it about time you stopped playing around with your life?”

Patty never liked to be reminded of her age. The approaching seventieth birthday had taken on the characteristics of a death knell. It seemed to signal the absolute end of every hope she had ever cherished.

Suddenly, the landline had rung, and Patty had dashed for it, grateful for the interruption.

It was the real estate agent in charge of Mrs. Pennington’s summer rental in Yorktide. There had been a last-minute cancellation and, if Patty was still interested, there was a place for her at the house. Marcia Livingston had paused for a moment before telling Patty that Mrs. Pennington had suggested that Patty might pay per week, rather than in total up front, as the other women were doing. Patty had almost cried. Mrs. Pennington must be a very nice person, Patty thought, to offer such a manageable payment schedule.

Patty happily accepted the offer. She didn’t mind being second choice. She was used to it.

As Patty set out from New Hampshire for her Maine adventure a week after that wonderful phone call, she had felt a surge of pure excitement. She had managed to escape! Oh, her sisters weren’t evil or anything, not like Cinderella’s sisters. They had agreed to write references for her, after all. It was just that they didn’t understand someone like Patty. Both Bridget and Teri had married young to men they had been dating since high school. They lived modestly but well, saved more money than they spent, and were generally content with their lot.

But Patty had never fit in with her sisters’ world. She had never considered marrying a man like her brothers-in-law, decent, hardworking, down-to-earth men with little pretensions to sophistication or worldliness. And why? Because her parents had groomed her for marriage to a rich professional man, a man who would want from Patty only what she could give—a pretty face, a good figure, and an amenable character. A man who would give her a fairy-tale ending.

Things hadn’t gone as planned.

But things might still turn around. Right? The car was handling nicely. The traffic wasn’t too bad. She had stopped for a coffee and a pastry about an hour earlier, and both had been delicious. All boded well for a happy summer in Yorktide.

Patty really, really hated to be unhappy.

Amanda Irving made one last inspection of the medicine cabinet to be certain she had packed everything she had intended to pack. She had, but before she closed the cabinet she glanced at the plastic bottles on the top shelf. Those were Liam’s. She hoped that he didn’t forget to take his pills that evening. He could be forgetful. She could leave a note for him, reminding him to take the pills, but decided against it. After all, the pills weren’t to help control or cure a life-threatening illness. They were supplements, probably ineffective. And Liam was an adult. He could take care of himself.

Next, Amanda went to the kitchen of her well-appointed apartment in Merrivale, a suburb of Boston. There, she retrieved her packed lunch from the fridge and filled her water bottle. She noted that there was only one banana in the fruit bowl on the counter. She wondered if Liam would eat any fruit or vegetables while she was gone. It was doubtful. He would probably survive on chips and dip.

Amanda was on her way to spend the summer in Yorktide, Maine. She would be living in a hybrid bed-and-breakfast situation with the owner of the house, Sandra Pennington, and two other women about whom Amanda had no idea. She had found the Sutter-Black Agency’s advertisement on a website that catered to women seeking to vacation on their own or with other middle-aged women. The photograph of the house, number 12 Spruce Street, had hit a chord with Amanda—it looked like such a serene place—and she had immediately set about gathering references.

The references had been solid. Hard-working. Dedicated. Down to earth. Amanda had felt proud when the three colleagues she had asked to vouch for her had shared with her their remarks.

Her colleagues’ assessments fit with Amanda’s own perception of herself as firmly and reliably average. She was in fact above average in intelligence though not an especially creative thinker. She preferred to get on with her life without drawing unnecessary attention to herself. That seemed a mature way to go about things.

Amanda’s physical appearance matched her personality quite nicely. She was of average height and build. When not at work, her wardrobe consisted of leggings, cargo pants, trainers, sporty tops and T-shirts, and sweatshirts. When at work, she wore blazers and slacks, flats, and tailored blouses. The only jewelry she wore consistently was a pair of small silver hoops. She kept her nails short and unpolished and rarely wore makeup. In short, she tended to blend into the background. She liked it that way.

Now back in the living room where her black travel bags were neat