Prologue
“Hello there,” the strange woman at Anne Lowell’s front door said cheerfully. “I’m going to blow up my driveway.”
Temporarily stunned into silence, Anne stared at her uninvited visitor. The woman wore an emerald-green satin jumpsuit that cuddled the rich curves of her body. Layers and layers of gold lariat necklaces hung around her neck. Beneath a vintage Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap, a tumble of loose and curly blonde hair—was that synthetic?—fell just an inch or two below her pearl-studded earlobes. And her untroubled face projected the easy-going confidence of someone who knew exactly what she wanted.
Anne kept both hands on the door in case she had to slam it. “You’re—what? Pardon me?”
“Well, it isn’t my driveway yet. Right now, it’s just dirt. But itwillbe a driveway, once I get that massive rock outcropping out of the way tomorrow. I’ve got a pal who works at a quarry out in Riverside—just the most gifted singer, by the way—and he’s secured the dynamite for me.” The stranger’s hands flew wildly through the air as she spoke. “You know, I’ve never watched a boulder explode before, but I think I’ll find it extremely satisfying. Satisfaction’s probably the fifth most important emotion in the world. Don’t ask me to name numbers one through four, though. Too much pressure.”
Anne had heard stories about the classic Topanga Canyon eccentrics who’d been around since before mass gentrification, seeking a rural haven tucked away from the rest of Los Angeles. Homesteaders, painters, ostrich farmers. This woman seemed to be a relic from those times, even though she looked younger than most of that remaining crowd. Around Anne’s age, likely,somewhere in her fifties. “May I ask why you’re telling me all this?”
“I’m your next-door neighbor. That adorable little pink house across the meadow?” The woman pointed. “Decent chance you’ll get some rock shrapnel raining down on your property once that outcropping goes sky high, and I don’t want to be responsible for you being unwittingly in the line of fire. So everyone within a quarter mile is getting a heads-up. Literally.”
That explained it. As much as any of this could be explained.
The woman stuck out her hand. “This visit doubles as a belated welcome wagon. You’ve been living here, what, a month now? Sincere apologies for the delayed introduction. I’ve failed miserably at social graces lately. Too busy keeping company with my own brain.”
Keeping company with—? No. Anne wouldn’t ask for clarification. That might extend this conversation. “I moved in six weeks ago,” she said instead.
“If you don’t shake my hand,” the woman continued, “I’ll assume you’re permanently outraged by my rudeness and therefore uninterested in homemade tzimmes cake.” She wiggled her extended fingers, which were tipped with lavender nails.
Anne had no idea what tzimmes cake was, other than cake, which was enough to know she didn’t want it. She didn’t want to shake this woman’s hand either; as a rule, Anne avoided touch in favor of air-kisses and polite smiles. But she didn’t seem to have much of a choice.
Her slowly offered hand was swallowed almost instantly by the woman’s grip. Warm, firm, solid.
How long had it been since Anne had had physical contact with another human being? Not since Genevieve had kissed her cheek in greeting at the last Conserve Malibu board meeting, twoweeks ago, and maybe that was why Anne had to swallow her inhale before it started to shake in her throat.
“Sarah Rebecca Rosenthal,” the woman announced. “Sadie to my friends, enemies, and Costco sample distributors.” She squeezed Anne’s hand briefly before letting go. “Poet-professor, luxury consignment connoisseur, hostess of the greatest shindigs in Southern California, and proud mother to a first-rate human being. Your name? No, don’t tell me.” Her gaze swept up and down, a brush of attention that prickled Anne’s skin. “I bet I can figure it out just by looking at you.”
Anne’s hand still tingled. She straightened her shoulders. “Is that really necessary?”
“Nothing in this world’s necessary except mutual aid and a decent mattress. I’ve decided you look like a Celeste.”
It was completely ridiculous to play a guessing game with a perfect stranger. Anne should order Sadie to get off her front porch, go email that conservation biologist with the overdue report, then treat herself to a nice cold glass of sauvignon blanc. Or two. Or three.
But instead, she found herself saying, “Wrong.”
“Eleanor? Francesca? Cordelia? It’s got to be something elegant. Women who could be Michelle Pfeiffer’s sister and who wear Veronica Beard”—Sadie gestured at Anne’s cream-colored silk blouse—“are never named Gertrude.”
In a second, this woman would pull out her phone and start eagerly scrolling through baby name lists. “Listen. Sadie, right? I really have a lot of—”
“Anne?”
Anne nearly answered “What?” before catching herself. Surprise opened her mouth before she snapped it shut again, silent.
The silence wasn’t one-sided. “Oh, I did it, didn’t I? I guessed right! You’re Anne. With an E, I hope. I always thought the other spelling seemed stingy. Anne with an E is so much creamier.”
“Anne Lowell.” Clearly, polite escape wasn’t possible until she gave this woman something. “Yes, there’s an E. From Malibu, recently divorced, two adult daughters.” She didn’t addsocial laughingstockorliving off my ex’s alimonyorI kept his surname because it’s been mine for half my life, damn it—although all were true.
“We’re both members of the recent divorcée club.” The light in Sadie’s face dimmed noticeably, replaced by a flash of raw and undeniable grief. “Awful, isn’t it? I’m sorry, Anne.”
“I’m not.” It was out before Anne knew she was going to say it. “James, my husb—my ex-husband—he came out last year. As gay. After thirty years of marriage.” Shaken by her own candor, she clenched her teeth and jaw to stop herself from elaborating. This woman didn’t deserve to know her private business.
Sadie whistled low. “Oh, my. And you never knew? That must’ve been devastating. I’m sure it still is.”
Humiliating, more like. “I’m getting over it.”
“I’m not sure you ever really get over something like that.” Sadie held Anne’s gaze. “Realizing you were the only one in a marriage you thought you shared.”