"I told Harry something didn't feel right that night. I said, 'Harry, something's not right.'" She leaned in, lowering her voice as if we were co-conspirators. "I couldn't sleep, you see. It was like my bones knew something terrible was about to happen. The neighborhood's not the same anymore. I told him they keep letting in those maids and housekeepers. You know all those landscapers are up to no good."
Mrs. Atkins had a reputation for frequently crying wolf to theHOA about suspicious activities, from teenagers smoking marijuana to strange vans that turned out to be the HVAC company servicing a nearby home.
"What happened to Leah was a terrible accident," I said firmly.
"I truly hope so." She picked up her shears again. "You take care of yourself and that daughter of yours, dear."
Almost without thinking, I continued down the street toward Rowan's house.
The neighborhood's grandest homes lined Wyld Wood Lane, perched high on the bluffs with sweeping views of Lake Michigan, and Rowan's house was the crown jewel of them all.
It was a massive stone-and-cedar modern lodge with soaring windows and a wraparound deck that looked out over the water.
As I approached, my steps slowed.
Brooke's Mercedes sat in the circular driveway. Whitney's fluffy Pomeranian, Percival, was tied to the front porch post. He leapt to his feet when he spotted Apollo and barked, his squat body wiggling in excitement, his rhinestone collar glinting at his furry throat.
Voices drifted through the open living room window, low and urgent. I recognized Whitney's low tenor, Brooke's shrill whine, and Rowan's calm, steady reply.
Heat flushed my face as I pulled out my phone and checked my messages. Nothing. No group text. No invitation. Just the same three messages I'd been staring at all morning: Camille's text about the interview, a notification from my cell phone provider, and a reminder about Mia's dentist appointment next week.
Last night, Rowan had texted a link to a podcast about supporting friends after a tragic loss, but there was no invitation to her house.
The realization that I’d been excluded sat cold and heavy in my stomach. They were grieving, pulling back to be with their families, holding their daughters tighter. They simply forgot to include me.
The silence still stung.
The old shame rose, choking my throat. I was twelve again, watching the popular girls whisper and laugh in the hallway while Isat alone at lunch. Thirteen and invisible in the back of the classroom while my classmates passed notes and made weekend plans.
Things were different now. I was a mature adult, not a cowering, mousy kid anymore. I owned a house in this luxurious neighborhood, a dilapidated fixer-upper, yes, but didn't that still count? I wasn't sure that it did.
We only lived in this exclusive gated community because the ramshackle cottage set on the undeveloped plot at the end of the road had been in my husband’s family for three generations, and after his eccentric great-aunt died within a month of Marcus's passing, it had been willed to Mia and me.
Built long before the HOA was formed, it was the only house left standing from the original 1940s neighborhood that hadn't been bulldozed and replaced by a mansion.
The taxes remained cheap because the house was about to slide over the bluff into Lake Michigan. Not next month or even next year, but its days were numbered. I was probably the only one crazy enough, desperate enough, to bet that it wouldn't happen soon.
I shouldn't have been here with these people. These effortlessly chic, successful, beautiful women, with their glossy salon blowouts and dewy skin from monthly facials that cost more than my grocery budget, with their elegant style and natural coolness.
They all owned lavish, expensive houses. They vacationed in Aspen and Turks and Caicos, drove Range Rovers and Teslas, and discussed nannies and housekeepers like I discussed couponing. Most of them filled their days with leisurely lunches, book clubs, spa appointments, hot yoga, and charity fundraisers. Other than Camille with her high-powered career, of course.
I looked down at myself. In my dead husband's ratty old U of M sweatshirt, with my chipped nail polish, frumpy off-brand jeans, and frazzled auburn curls that I could never tame. Constantly calculating the property taxes due next month, the climbing electric bill, and how many more freelance assignments I could pick up to cover the bills.
And yet somehow, impossibly, I was included here. Welcomed.Invited into the inner sanctum. They'd made me feel like I belonged, like the gap between us didn't matter that much. Like I had real friends.
I'd had coffee with Camille and Vivienne last week, volunteered with Rowan twice for the Lakeshore Prep bake-sale fundraiser, and often jogged with Whitney and Rowan on Sunday mornings, though I hated every second of the actual exercise part.
Running was torture, but I did it to be included among them, to breathe the rarified air of their approval and acceptance, to become a small part of their glittering world. If I stayed close enough, maybe a bit of their sparkle would rub off on me.
Why, then, were they all here without me? There were so many unspoken rules to follow to fit in, and though I tried as hard as I could, I was certain I must still be breaking them somehow. And now here I was, excluded once again.
I stood rigid at the end of the cobblestone driveway, uncertain, torn. Part of me wanted to turn around, to pretend I'd never walked this far, had never spotted Brooke's car or heard their voices. But I couldn’t.
I couldn't move, couldn't walk away.
Apollo whined softly, pressing against my leg. I reached down and scratched behind his ears. I was being silly, ridiculous. After all, these women had been there for me when I moved here last April in the aftermath of Marcus’s death, still traumatized and shell-shocked.
We had fled Chicago, grief-stricken, hurting, desperate for a safe place to land.
