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  For Talia

  CHAPTER 1

  I GREW UP in Westborough, Connecticut, but who cares. Nothing has ever happened there, unless you count that time someone spray-painted the sign that reads Now Entering Copper Hill to read Now Entering Poop Hole. The town was scandalized. My mom clutched her pearls when she saw it. Copper Hill is the highest-rent district of Westborough, the neighborhood where you find manicured lawns, trophy wives, and sports cars. The vandalized sign was replaced within a week or two, but sometimes when I drive to Copper Hill, I miss it. I’m much more of a Poop Hole kind of girl.

  My sister, Faye, and her husband, Winston “Win” Henry Milbank III, live in Copper Hill in an old gray colonial with five bedrooms and a driveway that loops at the top so they never need to perform a three-point turn. Their first floor is painted entirely in colors named after food items: buttercream (dining room), sage (guest bathroom), Wellfleet oyster (family room and entryway), marzipan (kitchen). Their lawn is nipped and tucked and hand-combed to resemble Astroturf. I guess it’s a pretty expensive look, because Faye once complained to me about Win’s war on grubs.

  “I swear he’s going to exhaust the kids’ trust funds if he keeps it up,” she said. “But he’s committed to annihilating them.” Then she sighed and lifted one shoulder. “It’s the best lawn on the block, though. It’s worth it.”

  Faye is at home in Copper Hill.

  Everything you need to know about me and Faye is displayed in this picture my parents have from the one and only time they forced us into the Sears Portrait Studio. I’m sure it seemed like a good idea, and also that Mom had a coupon. She bought us matching red plaid dresses with frilly white collars and told us to make sure we didn’t blink. To me, that meant widening my eyes as much as I could, and in every proof I have this wild, slightly horrifying stare. But I didn’t blink.

  Faye was thirteen years old and already attracting the attention of older men. They would stop us at the grocery store and look her up and down, saying, “You’re how old?” Then we’d hear what a knockout she would be when she reached eighteen. Faye could’ve paid her college tuition catching pedophiles. The police could’ve set her by a concealed pit, waited for a pervert to come along, and pulled her away at the last second. She is gorgeous, with a heart-shaped face, clear blue eyes, and long, silky, straight blond hair. In that photo she has this self-assured smile on her face because she already knows it.

  Then there’s me. I was ten and I’d just had my braces put on. I’ve got wide eyes and I’m grinning like a damn fool, but I have no teeth to speak of, only metal brackets and swollen gums. I have impossibly straight brown hair that hits my shoulders. It’s not chestnut, or amber, or whatever other shades are reserved for romance heroines. It’s brown, like the fur on a field mouse. It doesn’t crest or grace my shoulders, either. It arrives at them uninvited, decides it has nowhere better to be, and hangs out. So in the photo I have a full-on metal grimace and the haircut equivalent of a lazy drunken relative, and I’m standing next to my gorgeous sister and looking in the wrong direction with overwide eyes. Mom displayed the picture on the mantel, but she was kind enough to use a different photo on the Christmas cards that year.

  Let me put it this way: No one was surprised that Faye went on to marry a lawyer and live in Copper Hill, while I teach kindergarten, write children’s books, and just got dumped by my gay fiancé two days shy of my wedding. Our destinies were written in that Sears Portrait Studio.

  FAYE CALLED ME while I was contemplating my crotchless jeans, which I’d found on the floor of my bedroom next to Odin. “Hello?”

  “Lettie? It’s Faye. I need you to watch the twins for a couple of hours tomorrow afternoon.” Faye doesn’t ask for things. She calmly explains what needs to happen. “I’ve got parent orientation for their kindergarten. You should stay for dinner. I’m making a roast. Grass-fed.” The roast was added to sweeten the deal, I suppose.

  “I thought Dad was watching them.” I held up the jeans and frowned at the yellow Lab sprawled out on his bed. Odin thumped his tail happily.

  “Dad and Sadie have other plans. Sailing or something.”

  No surprise there. Dad is a semiretired trial lawyer who loves sailing. His other interests include whiskey, cigars, and marrying and divorcing younger women. Sadie is his fourth wife.

  “Sure, I’ll be there.” I looked down at my ruined jeans. They had been my favorite pair. “But I don’t know about dinner.” The next day was Wednesday, the day before the convocation at school, and I had my end-of-summer routine. I’d scheduled a hot bath with a glass of red wine and an evening of trashy television. “I have school on Thursday. Plus, Odin gets lonely.” He lifted his head at the sound of his name.

  “You have to eat, Lettie. The dog will be fine. Come over, bring the new Sweet Pea book. Portia and Blaise would love to hear it.”

  I started writing children’s books a few years earlier to use in my classroom. Mostly I use them to teach social graces, so my first is entitled Say Hello, Sweet Pea! and the next one is Sweet Pea Loves to Share. I’ve published five so far, each of them involving a little girl who lives with humans but has a peapod for a body. Back when we were still engaged, this bugged the hell out of James. “A sweet pea is a flower,” he would explain. “You’re confusing sweet pea, the flower, with sugar snap peas, the legume.”

  “James, she’s a human head on a peapod body. Do you really think my readers expect realism?”

  I claimed artistic license then, and I do to this day. Though to be fair, a few gardeners have left single-star reviews for this very reason and suggested that someone teach me something about horticulture.

  “Thanks, Faye. I’d love to share my new manuscript with the kids,” I said. “I’m having lunch with my editor on Saturday, and I want to be able to tell her that my book has been test-driven by actual children.”

  “Sure, sure. They love those books. Portia! Put your pants back on!” Faye sighed into the phone. “The doctor tells me this is normal, that it’s just a phase.”

  “Huh. So, what time?”

  “Make it three thirty. The twins will be home from camp. Portia! Put on your damn pants! Sorry, Lettie, I gotta run. She’s naked again.” She hung up.

  Children are permitted in Copper Hill, but I suspect they don’t play outside. There could be an ordinance for all I know. Keep your dogs on a leash, keep your children inside, and for God’s sake, no clotheslines. But like I said, I’m more of a Poop Hole girl, so when I arrived at Faye’s the next day at three thirty, I urged the twins to go outside and play on their grub-free not-really-Astroturf lawn. It was a cloudless early-September day: warm and sunny, the prelude to a perfect Labor Day weekend. Kids are supposed to like that sort of thing. I tried bribing them with whole-grain cookies and the all-natural apple juice I found at the back of the cupboard, but Portia and Blaise wouldn’t have it.

  “We don’t want to go outside,” Portia said, folding her chubby arms across her chest. “We want you to play a game with us inside.”

  Portia is not bossy. She is a leader, and Faye has instructed that saying otherwise will damage her self-esteem irreparably. Of course, Portia has no reservations about chipping away at mine. Auntie, why do you always wear the same shirt? Or Auntie, how come you don’t like to put on
makeup and look pretty like Mommy does? I’d been there under a half hour, and I already wanted to bury my feelings in a sleeve of artificially preserved cookies.

  “What if we went outside and played a picnic game?” I said. “We can even bring a blanket.”

  Blaise brightened and looked like he might come around, but Portia shot me down again. “No. Inside. End of discussion.”

  I don’t actually care about fresh air and exercise. I just wanted to spy on their neighbor, Dr. Lewiston. He has a small brown mustache and beady eyes, and I just know there are body parts in his basement. I’ve raised this with my sister. “You realize your neighbor is a serial killer, right? You may want to put up a fence.”

  “Dr. Lewiston? He’s a dentist,” Faye said, like this was evidence of his upstanding moral character. “He’s married with three kids.”

  “These aren’t mutually exclusive things, Faye. Mark my words: he keeps mason jars filled with urine.”

  What was it about him that had me so convinced? He was shifty and stern, and one time I caught him chasing Blaise off his lawn. Poor Blaise, who was only retrieving a ball. All I can hope is that when they find the bodies and arrest him, someone from the media will interview me so that I can say, “Oh, that guy? Yeah, I thought so.”

  Faye dislikes these conversations and tells me that I have a macabre fixation. She’s probably right. Still, as we stood in the living room, I pulled aside the curtain and peeked outside to study him as he hauled a large trash bag to the curb. After all, I have to find something interesting about Copper Hill. The place is boooring.

  Dr. Lewiston dragged the trash bag down the driveway, stealing furtive glances to the right and left. He’d found the blood shocking the first time. He was used to it by now. But this girl had been a bleeder. He felt a thrill dart through him, the pleasure of having a secret. Mine, he thought. Mine forever.

  He glanced up suddenly. Was it his imagination, or had there been a face in that window?

  I dropped the curtain. “Hey, kids? What do you think about your neighbor? Does he drive a windowless van?”

  Portia and Blaise weren’t listening. They were arguing over who would get to use the big pad of paper for coloring.

  “No, I had it first!” Blaise shrieked. “No!” He whacked Portia on the head with his fist.

  Good for Blaise, I thought, finally standing up to the dictator.

  “It’s my turn! You had it last time!” Portia lunged at his arm, her mouth open.

  I sighed and glanced at the clock. It was going to be a long afternoon. “Hey, kids? I have something special for you. Hey!” I snapped my fingers, then physically pulled them apart. “I said I have something special for you.”

  The twins both resemble Win, with light brown hair and a slightly husky build. They have plump cheeks that were red and angry just then as they fought to regain self-control. “Is it candy?” Portia said.

  “No, not candy.” I lifted my eyebrows and tried to look super excited. “It’s my new book! Should we read it together?”

  “No.” Blaise turned away. “I want to watch TV.”

  “I get to pick the show!” Portia cried, and ran to retrieve the remote control.

  “No one’s watching television.” I put the remote on a high shelf on the built-in bookcase. “I want to read my book to you.”

  “No, thank you,” Blaise said. He grabbed the unattended pad of paper while his sister was distracted.

  “Come on. It’s an alphabet book. I drew the pictures!”

  “Alphabet books are for babies.” Portia pouted and set her hands on her waist. “We want to watch TV.”

  This was no good. I pressed my lips together as I reconsidered my approach. “Tell you what,” I said. “If you listen to my books, I’ll take you for ice cream.”

  That got their attention. Two pairs of brown eyes widened.

  “Can we get sprinkles?” Blaise asked.

  “You sure can.” I sat down on the overstuffed tan sectional and patted the spots beside me. “Come on over.”

  They climbed up, one on each side, and snuggled their warm bodies against my legs. It was so endearing, and my heart surged as I lifted my manuscript and thought about parents reading my words to their children. My little books would become a part of someone’s childhood. I couldn’t help but smile as I opened to the title page. “This is called Sweet Pea’s Foodie Alphabet.”

  “What’s that mean?” Portia asked.

  “You’ll see. It’s an alphabet book for kids and parents who appreciate good food.” I turned the first page before she could ask a follow-up. “ ‘A is for aubergine. Aubergine purple, aubergine soft, aubergine broiled with saffron sauce!’ ” There was a picture of Sweet Pea dancing across a giant eggplant. I pointed to the opposite page. “And see, here’s a recipe for broiled aubergines with saffron yogurt. It’s something kids can make with Mommy and Daddy’s help. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  I thought it was a clever premise: an alphabet book loaded with recipes. Something parents and children could enjoy together. Blaise sank his head back against the seat cushion, his eyes already glazed over as I turned the page. “ ‘B is for bruschetta. Bruschetta on baguette is the perfect treat, add a little basil and eat, eat, eat!’ Here’s a nice recipe for bruschetta with plum tomatoes and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. It’s one of Auntie’s favorites!”

  Portia tilted her head to an unnatural position, the better to illustrate her boredom. “Is this almost over?”

  “Well, no. There are twenty-six letters in the alphabet, and we’re on the letter C,” I said brightly. “ ‘C is for crème fraîche—”

  “I’m bored.” Blaise slid off the couch and crawled toward the drawing pad.

  “Blaise? It’s only a few more—”

  “No, thank you.” He flattened onto his stomach, grabbed a red crayon off the floor, and started drawing.

  “I want to color, too!” Portia said, and ran over to her brother’s side. This time, he pulled off a piece of paper and handed it to her and they both sat coloring side by side.

  I was conflicted. On one hand, they hated my book. On the other, my writing had bored them into playing nicely. I decided it was a net neutral. “Okay, if anyone asks you, you loved my book, all right?”

  “Okay,” Portia mumbled. “Can we still go out for ice cream?”

  “Sure. A deal’s a deal.”

  FAYE LEFT her Lexus LX behind because the twins were still riding in car seats. The vehicle exterior was a shade called “Nebula Gray Pearl,” which I learned after I called it “pewter” and Faye corrected me. I held my breath as I strapped Portia and Blaise into their car seats, because I know what this car cost. I’d taken out a first mortgage to pay Faye for her half of our grandfather’s house when I decided to live in it. If I returned her car with a scratch or a dent, I would have to take out a second mortgage to pay her back for repairs. Faye, by contrast, was driving my little Toyota Corolla that afternoon. I’d convinced myself my car was practical yet sporty, but Portia panicked at the thought. “Mommy can’t drive that old car! What if it falls apart?” I gritted my teeth.

  I was lucky to get a parking spot on Linden Street only a block away from West Creamery. It was a beautiful day, and the exercise would do us all some good.

  “I’m going to have cherry-chocolate-chip ice cream with rainbow sprinkles,” Portia said as I unfastened her car seat harness.

  “That sounds yummy. What if they don’t have cherry-chocolate-chip?”

  “They do. Wanna know how I know that?” She didn’t wait for me to reply. “My vagina told me.”

  Faye had warned me that Portia was going through what she called “an exploratory phase.”

  “It’s perfectly normal, of course,” she’d said. “But just be aware. These days, she’s all about private parts. It’s important that we allow the explora
tion and not shame her.”

  Fine. But no one had told me that my niece was actually talking to her bits. “Huh. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” Portia replied. She looked at me earnestly. “Does your vagina talk to you, Aunt Lettie?”

  I was about to inform Portia that vagina wasn’t a nice word, but then, what was the alternative? Va-jay-jay? Then she’d just sound foolish. I’ve always pitied kids in my class who referred to their private parts by cutesy names, like “winkie” and “cha-cha.” I inevitably wonder whether they will continue to use those terms into adulthood, and if so, how many relationships it will end.

  “Actually, no, my vagina doesn’t talk to me.” I lifted her out of her car seat and walked her over to the sidewalk so I could get Blaise out of the car. Sweet Blaise, who didn’t ask me about such things. “Stand over here, honey, away from the cars.”

  I hoped that would end the discussion, but Portia wasn’t easily deterred. “Why doesn’t your vagina talk to you? Did you get into a fight?”

  I shot her a quick look over my shoulder. Was she screwing with me? But no, her eyes were wide and curious. I wondered how Faye would want me to answer her daughter’s question so as not to cause shame. I came up empty.

  “My vagina used to talk to me, but she’s been in a coma for some time. It’s very sad,” I added gently, sorry to break the bad news.

  “Oh.” Portia frowned and glanced down at the cement. “Why’s she in a coma?”

  Another excellent question. My niece was just chock-full of them, bless her heart. “It’s a little complicated.” I searched for an explanation that wouldn’t win a lecture from my big sister. “Basically it was medically induced.”

  “What’s that mean?” Blaise asked as I lifted him onto the sidewalk.

  “Sometimes when there’s a lot of swelling or someone gets very sick, doctors will put them into a coma so they can rest.” I thought that was mostly true, and they wouldn’t be able to run Internet fact checks for a few years yet. “Do you remember Uncle James?”