Page 13 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“Of course! What about that smart young lawyer we met at the Andersons’ last week?”

My dad tells my mom they were at the Jennings’ house, not the Andersons’ house, and this very beside-the-point correction launches a round of bickering I use to cover my escape.

Ten minutes later, Eleanor finds me on the front porch, slumped in an Adirondack chair and scanning used-car listings on my phone. She looks elegant, as always, today in a pale-blue skirt suit that’s equally appropriate for a summer engagement party and a day in the office as the policy assistant to the governor of Maine. She wears her hair cropped short these days, in a style she used to mock as “too mom-ish,” but it suits her, as does the van she said she’d never buy and the flat shoes she swore she’d never wear. She turns forty this year, with a time-consuming job, three kids currently at home with a sitter, and a loving but equally busy husband who’s out back helping with the barbecue. Flattering heels are no longer a priority.

She takes a seat beside me, setting a glass of white wine on a small table between us.

“Too much peopling?” she asks.

“Too much everything.” I pocket my phone and settle back in the chair, gazing out at a perfect square of green lawn bordered by an honest-to-god white picket fence. The rose beds that line the porch are immaculate. The grass looks like it’s never heard of a weed, let alone allowed one to invade its neatly trimmed expanse. Somehow, Louisa even got rid of the mosquitoes. She’s a domestic goddess, and her divinity is on high display today.

“You used to enjoy Grams’s parties,” Eleanor says.

“Grams didn’t make me socialize. She put a tricorn on my head and a tray of sea-themed appetizers in my hands and let me make my own choices about how much to engage.”

“She put you to work?”

“She gave me something to do.”

“Huh.” Eleanor considers this, and I use the moment to appreciate my grandmother’s sharp perception. I’ve always been anxious about attending big social events. She helped, not by pressuring me to make more of an effort but by removing the need to make any effort at all.

Again—again—the thought returns.

If my grandmother was still alive . . .

Not only can I no longer ignore it when it tap-tap-taps on my brain, but I’ve started to suspect it’s a cover for a similar but even harder thought. Now that she’s gone . . .

But this is not the time or the place to let that one take hold.

My sister sips her wine while I watch a row of sunflowers bow in the breeze. Of all my siblings, Eleanor has always been the least aggressive about filling every silence, though eventually she says, “Mom mentioned you’re starting a new teaching job this fall.”

I emit a pained groan as I drop my head into my hands.

Beside me, Eleanor laughs. “Let me guess. You fed her a crumb. She made a feast?”

“It’s my fault. I caved under pressure. Told her the job search was underway.” I peek between my fingers. “Most listings will get posted after schools are back in session and searches are approved. Even then, anything full time would likely start the following fall. And, well . . .” I lower my hands to pick at the hem of my white eyelet sundress. It looked cute this morning when I put it on. Now it has a lemonade stain on the skirt, pink frosting on the collar, and sweat marks under the arms. How my siblings all manage to look spotless on a hot summer day, after hours spent in a crowded house full of people eating and drinking, is beyond me.

“The eBay sales,” Eleanor says. “How are they going?”

I inch up a shrug. “It’ll be enough for a few repairs. Windows. Roof patching.”

She gives me a look that suggests she hears what I’m not saying, loud and clear.

“You know Mom and Dad would help,” she says. “Just until you get back on your feet.”

“I’d rather get myself back on my feet.” I glance around to make sure our parents aren’t standing nearby, hanging on every word. “It’s those looks they give each other. The ones that say, We knew this one would be a problem or How many times did we try to tell her?”

Eleanor nods. She might be the perfect daughter, immune to those looks, but she gets it.

“What about selling the boat?” she asks.

“Selling her? Pretty sure I’d need to pay someone to tow her away.”

“You could start charging Dylan rent.”

“I could, I guess.” I settle my dress over my knobby knees. I hated them at age fourteen, and I still hate them at thirty-four. “But Grams wouldn’t want me to. Her will was so clear, and she was so grateful for his help. I’ve always thought of him as her assistant, but he used the word friends the other day, which is hard to picture but may be closer to the truth. Besides, if I’m only there for a few months, it doesn’t hurt to have someone keeping an eye on the place.”

“Are you only there for a few months?”