It begins with a phone call.
Gina Dewar is standing in front of the stove, simmering tomatoes with minced garlic and olive oil. To her left is a cutting board with fresh herbs and sliced jalapeño peppers. In a few minutes, she’ll add them to the frying pan and reduce the ingredients to a rich sauce, thick and spicy. Gina hums along with the fridge—there is something musical about their loud fridge. A crazy notion, but one that Gina is convinced of. She should know: so much of her time is spent in the kitchen. It’s her territory, her happy place.
The buzzing sound is unexpected.
Gina’s phone is alive on the granite island, Bobby’s name flashing on the screen. Gina steals a glance at the farmhouse wall clock: 5:33 p.m.
“Hello?” Her tone is tentative, confused. Bobby isn’t supposed to be calling her. His weekly staff meeting won’t be over for at least another hour. Gina knows her husband’s schedule better than her own—they’ve shared calendars for years. It’s Wednesday, which means he’ll leave Grand Central Station at 7:30 p.m. and arrive in Alma at 8:25 p.m.
“I’ll be home soon,” he says. “I took the five o’clock.”
“Did something happen?”
A pause. “I’ll tell you about it when I get home.”
Whatever it is, Gina wants to know right away. She doesn’t like to wait. Who does? But Calan is looking up from his computer, a frown on his face. Gina doesn’t want him to worry. He’s having a good day. He won’t get many of those now that the school year has begun. Calan is a sophomore in high school. According to his age, he should be a freshman. The decision to allow him to skip a year when he was only six years old had been a source of tremendous stress for Gina. Bobby had been thrilled, certain that it indicated his son’s burgeoning genius. And his teachers agreed. Gina was outvoted. Now, she worries it was a mistake. Maybe she should’ve put her foot down, insisted on Calan going through each grade at a normal pace.
She turns off the stove. The sauce can wait.
“All right, honey,” she says in a cheery tone. “See you soon.”
She puts the phone down, ignoring the familiar prickle of anxiety.
“Was that Dad?” Calan asks.
Gina takes a moment to admire her son’s angelic face: his upturned Cupid’s bow and sincere eyes. Calan has full lips and a heart-shaped face (just like Gina), and green eyes and strawberry blonde hair (just like his dad).
“Yep, he’s coming home early,” Gina says.
In the blink of an eye, Calan changes. A turtle pulling into its shell.
Gina resists the urge to hug her son. She doesn’t want to validate Calan’s negative feelings towards Bobby.
“What about his meeting?”
Gina shrugs. An attempt at a casual gesture.
“Is it Souliers?” Calan frowns. He’s a smart, sensitive boy: he can sense her unease. “Are we selling?”
Gina gives him a you know better than that look.
“What?” he says, lifting his palms. “Maybe he finally caved to the pressure.”
“This is your dad we’re talking about,” Gina reminds him. “He doesn’t cave. Alma Boots is staying in the family.”
Calan lifts his shoulders. His turn to feign apathy. Calan likes to pretend he doesn’t care what happens to the company, but Gina knows he keeps tabs on the potential deal. Last week, she’d borrowed his iPad and caught a pro-sale opinion piece open on his browser. Gina had read the article. The author argued that a sale to Souliers would be beneficial to all parties, especially to consumers. A misguided perception, obviously. Gina had scrolled down to the comments section, relishing the heated replies from people who had enough common sense to agree with her. Many had used the now-viral hashtag: #KeepAlmaBootsAmerican. She had added her own comment—anonymously, of course.
Bobby would never sell Alma Boots, especially not to a foreign conglomerate. Alma Boots has been in his family for nearly one hundred years. Still, Gina feels a fresh ripple of apprehension. Bobby’s voice had been tense, more so than usual. What if she’s wrong? What if he ran over the numbers and realized that a sale is inevitable? Selling Alma Boots would break Bobby’s heart. Not to mention the entire town’s—the factory is what keeps it alive, thriving. It’s a true company town.
“Would you prefer to have dinner in your room?” Gina asks. This is unprecedented. Family dinners aren’t optional in their house. Gina does not approve of isolationist eating, but Bobby’s voice had sounded unusually strained…
Calan grins. “I’m pretty sure you can guess my answer, Mom.”
“Oh, very funny. I thought you liked our dinners.”
Their Wednesday-night dinners are low-key affairs. They’ve been doing it for years now, ever since Bobby began holding staff meetings on Wednesdays, in the late afternoon. Every week, Gina tries a new recipe—she’s gone through six different cookbooks. She and Calan eat in the kitchen, not bothering to use proper placemats and drinking 7 Ups straight from the cans. A few weeks ago, Calan had confessed that he much preferred their casual meals to the chic Friday-night dinners at his grandmother’s house. It had made Gina’s day.
“With Dad here it won’t be one of our dinners.”
“No, you’re right.” Gina sighs. “All right, dinner in your room it is. But just for tonight.”
Calan stuffs his hands inside the pockets of his oversized gray hoodie. Lately, it’s all he seems to wear: jeans, a T-shirt and a hoodie, usually black or gray or beige. Almost like he wants to disappear inside a sense of self-imposed blandness. Although lately isn’t entirely accurate. It’s been years. Ever since the bullying began. Gina hadn’t been prepared for this part of having a teenager. And Calan isn’t even fifteen yet—his birthday is in December.
“Sweet, I’ll try out my new game. The graphics are supposed to be sick.”
“Remember you have school in the morning.” A pointless reminder. Calan is a nocturnal creature, Gina has long given up on getting him to go to bed early. His video games reek of unhealthy escapism, but they bring him joy, and he has very little joy in school.
Gina returns to the stove to finish the sauce. The homemade pasta is already cooked, set aside in a pot. When dinner is ready—freshly made pappardelle with arrabbiata sauce—Gina fixes Calan a plate.
A timer goes off. The cookies.
“Yum,” Calan says, eyeing the cookie sheet. “Chocolate chip.”
“I wanted to add macadamias, but I’m bringing them over to the new neighbors in the morning and you never know these days. Allergies.”
“Everyone likes chocolate chip.”
“Apparently, they’re just a couple, no kids.”
“How do you know?”
“Tish.”
“My grandmother, the knower of all things.” He gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Save me a couple?”
“I always do.”
Calan disappears up the stairs with his dinner, no doubt to lose himself in his video games and graphic novels. Gina worries. It’s a lot of screen time. Although, in all fairness, it’s not all passive viewing. Calan writes and illustrates his own stories, too. That’s something. An artistic endeavor. Gina is impressed at her son’s creativity (he’s very intelligent, he takes after his dad), but she wishes his interests weren’t quite so… antisocial.
Still, she can’t complain. Calan buys his games and gear with his hard-earned babysitting money. Video games are a surprisingly expensive hobby—Calan wouldn’t be able to afford it on his allowance alone. Bobby makes a very nice living (not to mention the exorbitant sum sitting in his trust fund), but Gina doesn’t believe in spoiling their son. She is determined to raise an ethical child. Calan will learn the value of money. A lesson mimicked from her own upbringing. Probably the only one.
Bobby arrives home thirty-five minutes later, looking flushed. He slips off his shoes by the front door, sighing heavily. Gina watches as he removes his frameless spectacles, wiping the lenses with his monogrammed handkerchief.
“Hey, honey.” She moves in to give him a kiss. His lips are cold, too cold for September, but she feels his warmth when he pulls her into a hug. “Did something happen?”
Bobby’s forehead creases. He nods, downcast and serious.
“Is it Souliers?” There is apprehension building in her chest.
“No, nothing with them.” His gaze sweeps across the dining room to the right: green area rug, an oversized family portrait taken when Bitsy, their black Lab, had still been alive, an antique cherry wood table that had belonged to Richard Dewar. “Is Calan upstairs?”
Gina nods. “He already ate. Are you hungry?”
“Let’s talk first.”
Together, they turn left, heading to the living room. This is intentional on Gina’s part—it’s the room furthest from Calan’s. If this isn’t about Souliers, then it can only be about their son, and she doesn’t want him overhearing their conversation. Gina and Bobby agree on many things, but the one thing they disagree on—the big thing, anyway—is how to handle Calan’s bullying at school. Bobby’s approach is all no-nonsense and tough love. An ineffective policy. All it’s done is create a rift between him and Calan, leaving Gina stuck in the middle. Last week, Bobby had floated the idea of sending Calan to boarding school, possibly even military school. A preposterous plan. Gina is already struggling with the notion of Calan leaving for college in three years.
They sit beside each other on the L-shaped couch, the one Gina had spent an entire weekend assembling because Bobby had been sick with the flu. She smooths her hand along the brightly colored throw pillows. They remind her of fluffy rainbows.
Bobby rubs his eyes and leans forward. After drawing a deep breath, he finally speaks. “I’m being accused of sexual misconduct.”
Gina blinks. “I’m sorry… what?”
“Her name is Eva Stone.” There’s a tremor in Bobby’s voice. “She’s an analyst with the company. She’s saying we were… involved. It’s obviously not true.”
Gina stares, words jumbled in her mind out of order. “Involved? What does that mean?”
“She’s claiming we had an affair. She’s lying. I don’t know why she’s lying, but she is lying. HR informed me—”
“When?”
“When?” Bobby frowns.
“When did you find out? When did you have this conversation with HR?”
“I met with Goddard before lunch.”
“You’ve known about this for hours?” The pulse in her neck is throbbing. It upsets Gina, learning that Bobby has discussed this with the head of HR before she even knew about it. It doesn’t help that Goddard isn’t an Almanac—that never sat right with Gina, having an outsider as upper management.
“Gina, I—” Bobby rests his hand on hers. She pulls it away.
“You’re saying she’s making this up?”
“I’m saying I didn’t do this.” The tremor is gone. Now, his tone is firm, unwavering.
“Did you fire her?”
Bobby blinks. “I can’t fire her.”
“Why not?” Bobby is CEO. He can do whatever he wants.
“Think of the optics. She accuses me of sexual misconduct, and I fire her? Can you imagine the backlash?”
Gina opens her mouth and then closes it again.
“With all this #MeToo business,” Bobby continues, “she could sue.” Gina doesn’t give two figs about a lawsuit. She’s about to say as much to Bobby, but he continues, “There’s more.” Bobby takes a deep breath. He sounds pained. “She wants me to step down as CEO. If I do, she won’t come forward with this, officially.”
Step down? Bobby has been CEO for four years. Gina still remembers the day Charles passed the baton over to him. Bobby had been elated by his father’s endorsement. As CEO, Charles had been popular, but hard to please. And the company had been struggling. But Bobby had welcomed the challenge. It had paid off: he had turned Alma Boots around. The idea of Bobby stepping down is unthinkable. Alma Boots is like his second child. And there wouldn’t be anyone to replace him. The CEO is always a Dewar—and Nick has been working at the company for all of two minutes.
“But why would…” Gina pauses, remembering the woman’s name. Eva Stone. It sounds sexy, like a movie star’s name. “Why would Eva want you to do that?”
Bobby shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t understand any of it. She’s saying she doesn’t want to see Alma Boots associated with a scandal. All she wants is my resignation. But I’ll tell you what I told Goddard: she won’t come forward, not officially, because to do that you need proof and she has none.”
Gina feels her muscles relaxing. No proof.
“So… what? She has a vendetta against you?” Vendetta. The word seems silly, almost comical. Like something she’d come across in one of Calan’s comic books.
“The way I see it, it all comes down to three options.” Bobby releases a breath. He sounds calm and measured. This makes sense: Bobby’s strength is planning, strategizing. Gina pictures Bobby meeting with Goddard in one of the spacious conference rooms of the iconic 30 Rockefeller Plaza building.
He goes over his theories.
Number one: Eva Stone is lying for personal gain. The most obvious reason is money. Maybe she wants a payout.
Number two: Eva Stone is lying for someone else. A third party is paying her to fabricate this story. Or coercing her. The most likely culprit would be Souliers—they’ve been circling Alma Boots like hungry sharks for months, but Bobby keeps turning them down. Perhaps they think that an interim CEO would agree to a sale.
Number three: Eva Stone is batshit crazy. She actually believes she had an affair with Bobby. There are dozens of mental illnesses that can cause hallucinations.
“That’s the most dangerous option,” he says. “I can’t go around calling a woman crazy.”
“Not even if she’s saying you had an…” Gina can’t bring herself to say the word. Affair.
“No, but someone else can do it. An unimpeachable, objective third party. Which is why I’m opening an investigation to get to the bottom of this.”
An investigation. This is good. A guilty man wouldn’t want an investigation. Gina bobs her head, slowly. She trusts her husband. Of course he didn’t have an affair.
“We’re meeting with a few firms tomorrow. Quietly. Nick called in a favor and got us an appointment early in the morning. Our hope is that by the time this gets out we’ll have a defense ready.”
“OK,” Gina says. “How can I help?”
Bobby gives her a weak smile. “Just by being you.” He reaches for her hand again. This time, Gina doesn’t pull away. Bobby leans back against the sofa cushions. He looks tired, worn out. “The timing couldn’t be worse.”
“Because of Souliers?”
“Yeah. We’re living a PR dream right now. It would be a shame to lose the public’s trust over something like this.”
Gina hadn’t even considered that. Alma Boots has always been a popular brand, but fear of a sale has caused people from all across the country to unite in patriotism. The company is now beloved. Social media is filled with pictures of men, women, and children, both regular folks and celebrities, showing off their favorite pairs of Alma Boots shoes. They tag the company and use hashtags like #AlmaBootsIsAmerica and #madeintheUSA and #MadeByAmericanHands.
Gina remembers one particularly moving Facebook post in which a woman had shared three pictures: one of her as a small girl in pigtails wearing her first pair of Alma Boots’ classic sheepskin boots, one as a teen wearing a pair of their limited-edition tan, wide-calf leather boots, and one as an adult wearing one of Alma Boots’ fuzzy moccasins. Alma Boots is about more than shoes or fashion, she had written. It’s about growing up American, in America. It’s the very spirit of our country.
The post had gone viral after Angie Aguilar—the pop star who’s best friends with the likes of Chrissy Teigen and Serena Williams—shared it. The singer has been Alma Boots’ unofficial ambassador for over a year.
“Alma Boots has been around for decades,” Gina says now. “It’s as American as apple pie. That’ll never change.”
“The world has changed in the last few years,” Bobby replies. “Companies can’t be associated with sexual impropriety. People won’t care that it’s a lie. I don’t need to be guilty of anything, the accusation alone could ruin me.”
Gina opens her mouth to protest. The idea that a lie could destroy a cherished American brand, one that’s been around for four generations, is, quite frankly, absurd. But what does Gina know about the inner workings of a corporation? About brand management and public relations? So much of what Bobby shares about his day is lost on her. She’s a good wife and mother, but she’s also a college dropout who’s never held a real job.
Bobby squeezes her hand. “You believe me, don’t you?”
Gina meets her husband’s gaze. His chiseled jaw and green eyes are resolute. His face is identical to his brother’s—except for his eyebrows. Nick’s eyebrows are arched in a way that make it seem like he’s zeroing in on whoever is in front of him. It makes him look… predatory. Everyone else thinks they are indistinguishable, but Gina has always been able to tell them apart. Because Bobby’s eyebrows are steady, sincere. And right now he seems to be telling the truth.
“Of course I believe you.”
Bobby leans in. They stay like this for a few minutes: sharing the silence, comfortable in each other’s arms. It’s a soothing scene, but Gina’s mind is spinning faster than a seven-speed hand mixer. One thought in particular stands out.
“Does anyone know?” Gina asks. “Other than Goddard and Nick?”
“No.” A pause. “Well, Nick might’ve told Alice…”
Gina feels her body deflate. The thought of Alice knowing about this is almost as bad as the knowledge that a complete stranger is lying about having been involved with Bobby. Gina pictures her judgmental sister-in-law perched on her sleek chaise longue, her lithe figure barely making a dent on the ridiculously overpriced piece of furniture, her platinum blonde hair pulled tightly in a bun.
It’s no secret Alice thinks she’s better than Gina. Better than everyone in Alma, with her fancy degrees and once-successful career in investment banking. Alice is never happy. Tish describes her as perpetually absent and self-involved, but Gina is fairly certain that this news will provide her with a substantial dose of schadenfreude.
But maybe Nick won’t say anything. They don’t seem to have that sort of marriage, where they open up to each other. Gina wonders if she should ask Nick to keep this to himself.
“I’m sorry this is happening. But we’ll get through it.” Gina doesn’t feel the least bit confident, but she tries her best to offer a reassuring smile. Her husband projects a strong image to the world, but he is secretly sensitive. All men must be, Gina thinks. There are sides of a man that only a wife knows. It makes sense: love requires many things, but first and foremost it requires vulnerability. And Bobby is only capable of being vulnerable with her.
“We’ll be fine.” Bobby sits up, clears his throat. “Tomorrow I’ll meet with the firms and choose the very best one. Until then, it’s business as usual. I won’t dignify this woman’s ridiculous claims.”
Gina nods. She can tell that Bobby is feeling more like himself, strong and in control. It’s a dance they know well: he makes her feel protected, she makes him feel loved.
“Just tell me again you believe me,” Bobby says.
“I believe you.”
Bobby leans in to give her a kiss and excuses himself to take a shower. They make plans to have dinner in the family room, while watching a movie. It’s Gina’s turn to pick. As soon as he heads up the stairs, Gina feels the knot in her chest tighten. Is Bobby telling the truth? Gina wishes she could call Caroline, but her friend is on a business trip somewhere far away and in an inconvenient time zone. But she knows what Caroline would say: Bobby is a good husband. All of her friends think so. If Caroline were here, she’d reassure Gina that Eva Stone’s allegations aren’t just untrue, they’re impossible. And Caroline has a lawyer’s brain: skeptical and cynical.
But what does Caroline know?
Anyone can lie. Anyone can keep a secret.
Gina is a big believer in facing reality. Sugarcoating is for desserts, not life. And the reality is that her husband could be lying, and she’d have no idea.
Just as Gina has been lying to Bobby for the past fifteen years.
Alice Dewar is not a fan of Wednesdays.
Wednesday evenings are a prelude to Thursday mornings—the day the Alma Social Club convenes. The hours leading up to an ASC meeting are worse than the meeting itself. Slower, more torturous, somehow.
But today is different. Today, she has a plan.
She writes as much in her journal—her first entry in years. Her plan is solid. It gives her hope. If she succeeds, she’ll be out of this backwards town in months. Possibly weeks. Alice’s Valium-induced sleep is usually a dreamless one, but when she does dream, it’s about living elsewhere. London. New York. São Paulo. Any big city will do. Alice is many things, but she is not a small-city gal. She needs the kinetic energy that comes with a metropolis.
Alice picks up her phone to check the time: 4:55 p.m. It’s been an hour since she sat down in her bedroom’s white armless chair to write. Her left elbow, propped on the table’s smooth lacquered surface, is beginning to cramp. She leans forward, stretching her back, lifting her slender arms in the air. She tucks her notebook inside her leather document box, the one she uses to keep the two Mother’s Day cards she’s received, as well as a picture of her own mother, and clasps the metal lock closure shut. Writing will have to wait. Nick will be home soon.
She makes her way into her en suite. As her bare feet touch the heated stone tiles, she reaches for the light switch, only to dim it when she sees her reflection in the mirror. Her face looks puffy, doughy. This is a problem. Tonight she needs to look her best.
Alice bites her lower lip and eyes the black jar that promises miracles from the Dead Sea. She feels as though she is swimming inside her own mind, only instead of water she is swimming in quicksand. She tries to remember the promise she made this morning, when she found her journal. But it’s no use. She can feel her resolve waning like a sugar cube in a cup of hot coffee.
She’ll quit tomorrow.
Alice opens the jar and finds her jet fuel. She slips one pill on her tongue and washes it down with tap water. She instinctively touches her left shoulder, even though the pain has been gone for a while now.
She is about to step into the shower when she hears a knock on her bedroom door.
“It’s me, Mrs. Dewar.” Malaika’s faintly accented voice echoes through the door frame.
Alice slips on her robe. “Come in.”
Malaika gently pushes open the door and walks inside Alice’s 800-square-feet bedroom. Malaika moved in one month ago, but Alice still hasn’t gotten used to the girl’s striking feline beauty. Malaika has long, honey blonde hair, a cat’s yellow-green eyes, and a wide mouth. She is busty but slim, and her skin is tanned. Malaika is also tall, although exactly how tall, Alice isn’t sure—could she be six foot? But Malaika’s most arresting feature is her skin: elastic, youthful, dewy.
“Mrs. Dewar?”
Has Malaika been speaking?
“How tall are you, Malaika?”
“How tall?” Malaika tilts her head. “One eighty.”
Fifteen years. The combined amount of time Alice has lived in countries where they use the metric system, and yet she has no idea how to convert that to feet.
“Mrs. Dewar, Allegra would like to wait for Mr. Dewar to come home.”
“Not tonight,” Alice says. She’ll need Nick’s undivided attention—an impossible task if Allegra is awake. It’s never one goodnight story with Nick. He’ll end up reading their two-year-old a dozen stories, sharing Dewar family tales, and singing to her while she falls asleep. And Alice will be left waiting like an unclaimed package at the post office.
Malaika looks as though she is about to say something but changes her mind. Alice is thankful when she leaves the room, closing the door behind her. Alice had pored over resumés of multiple American nannies before deciding to hire the au pair from Switzerland who had seemed friendly and direct on her cover letter (Alice appreciated the directness more than the friendliness). Soon after Malaika’s arrival, Alice had been hit with about a dozen au-pair-related horror stories from the women at the ASC. Tales of unauthorized parties and trashed houses. Of husbands being seduced. Of children being neglected. Alice had ignored them. She might be a member of the ASC (a compulsory membership, one that comes with her last name), but she is nothing like those alarmist and insecure women. She chose to follow her instincts, thank you very much.
And life has rewarded her.
Malaika is hard-working and tireless, and Allegra adores her. What little girl wouldn’t want an au pair who looks like a life-sized Barbie doll?
Alice goes through her routine: ice cold shower, Hanacure mask, Georgia Louise Cryo Freeze tools, La Mer moisturizer. By the time she finally steps into her walk-in closet, she looks a bit more presentable. She applies a light layer of makeup and selects a simple outfit: dark jeans, a beige long-sleeved shirt, and a gray, cashmere sweater. She studies her reflection in the floor-length mirror. Almost ready.
She picks up her hairbrush and combs her platinum blonde hair, gathering it into a high ponytail at the crown of her head. She secures it with an elastic band and then pulls at it, letting go when she feels her forehead stretching and her eyes watering. She then styles it into a bun, using bobby pins to tack up the shorter strands. Alice can practically hear her stepmother’s voice—critical, domineering—as she pats on her hair to make sure that it is neatly in place. Tight bun, tight skin! And your skin needs all the help it can get, Alice.
She is in the living room when the landline rings. Alice cringes. There’s only one person who calls this number. She picks up the cordless phone and presses it against her left ear.
“Alice,” Tish says, on the other end of the line, “I’m calling to remind you about the meet and greet with the new neighbors. They’re moving in tomorrow.”
Alice lowers her body onto the arched chaise longue. She has a vague recollection of new neighbors, some fuss about them snagging a house on Backer Street. It had been discussed at tedious length during one of the ASC meetings.
“They’re moving into the Farrells’ house,” Tish adds.
Ah, yes. Heather Farrell use to own the gelato shop on Main Street. The house is practically across the street from Gina and Bobby, and about eight houses away from hers. One of the many disturbing, compound-like aspects of living in Alma is that all the Dewars live on the same street. It’s as tacky as it sounds.
Alice still remembers landing at JFK three years ago, before she and Nick had made the drive to his hometown. She’d never been to Alma before. She had elbowed Nick playfully, joking that once they settled in, they’d engage in small-town activities like waving at their neighbors and going to church. Nick had smiled and told her that Alma wasn’t religious: “It’s not really a church-type town. Actually, Alma Boots is their religion.” Alice had laughed at his sense of humor. Except, later, she found out that it hadn’t been a joke at all—it had been a warning. Alma was a cult. And Tish was the town’s high priestess.
“Is there a specific time you were planning on going?” Tish continues. “I prefer the mornings myself, but I know you like to sleep in…”
This again. Ever since her mother-in-law learned that Alice occasionally wakes up around eleven in the morning—a sin as far as Tish Dewar is concerned—she’s found ways to work it into conversation. As though it’s any of her business. As though it’s shameful. For years, Alice had woken up at 5:30 a.m., her mind humming in anticipation at the start of a new day filled with challenges and deadlines. Alice had been good at her job: quick on her feet, diligent, and driven. But it had all been taken away from her. And after Allegra was born, Alice hadn’t slept at all, haunted by the sensation that she was entirely ill-equipped to take care of a newborn. Is it such a crime that after years of being an early riser Alice is finally sleeping in? It’s not like there’s anything to get up for in this town.
“Are you still there?” Tish’s tone is impatient.
Alice runs her fingers up and down the chaise’s suede fabric. “I don’t remember it being my turn to extend the official ASC greeting.”
The truth: Alice does remember. But she also knows how much it bothers Tish when she acts forgetful. It’s sad, really, how much pleasure Alice derives in vexing her mother-in-law. But Tish is her jailer and Alice doesn’t believe in silent demonstrations of disobedience.
“We discussed it at the last meeting.”
“All right, then.” Alice props her legs on the chaise, assuming a fully reclined position. She might as well get comfortable. This conversation isn’t likely to end any time soon. Brevity isn’t Tish’s strength. “I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
“When exactly?”
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