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“They won’t ticket you if you’re standing right by your car,” Pamela announces with the authority of a woman who’s married to a Windmere Cove policeman.

“They won’t?” Elizabeth tries to think of another reason to make a quick getaway.

“Nope.” Pamela hands an animal cracker to the howling Hannah, who promptly shuts up and shoves it into her mouth. “Even if they tried to ticket you, you’re with me and everyone on the force knows I’m Frank’s wife. Listen, were you planning to go straight home?”

“I—yes,” Elizabeth says, thinking that Pamela might want her to go over to the Sailboat Cafe for coffee, and that’s the last thing she wants to do.

“Great. Would you mind doing me a huge favor?”

“What is it?” Elizabeth tries not to sound wary, but it isn’t easy. Pamela’s a nice enough person, but there are times—a lot of times—when Pamela doesn’t seem to respect the boundaries Elizabeth is doing her best to establish.

“My back and my arms are breaking and I can’t fit these bags in the rack under the stroller. Would you mind …?”

“Of course I’ll take them for you,” Elizabeth says, relieved, opening the car door and motioning for Pamela to put the bags in.

“Not just the bags, actually. Would you mind taking the stroller too?”

“I guess I—”

“And Hannah?”

Elizabeth blinks.

“It’s just that I have a few more errands to run—there’s a sale on diapers over at Carmen’s Drugs—and then I have to take Jason to the doctor for his two-month shots, and it’ll be so much easier to do it if Hannah’s not with me. She screamed as soon as she saw the syringe when I took him for his two-week shots, even though I promised her she didn’t have to have one this time. Did you ever try to wrestle two screaming kids down a flight of stairs and into their car seats?”

Elizabeth can only shake her head and open her mouth to protest, but before she can, Pamela continues talking.

Pamela always does this—asks for some huge favor and then rattles on and on so that Elizabeth can’t get a word in to refuse.

“I was going to leave Hannah with Ellie Hanson from our play group, but her daughter’s got one of those nasty summer colds and the last thing I need is for Hannah to catch it and give it to the baby. Did you know that colds are linked with crib death?”

Elizabeth helplessly shakes her head again, fully aware of Pamela’s insinuation that if she doesn’t baby-sit Hannah, and Jason subsequently succumbs to crib death, it will be entirely her fault.

“I read that in some magazine article the last time I was at the pediatrician’s office,” Pamela goes on, bending and unstrapping the cracker-munching Hannah, then pulling her out of the stroller. The little girl reaches out with a soggy-crumb-covered hand and grabs a handful of Elizabeth’s long, dark hair.

“Let go of that, sweet-pea,” Pamela says, and unpries her daughter’s fingers. “Sorry, Liz. She loves to pull hair. I’m practically going bald.”

“My name isn’t Sweet-pea. It’s Babe,” Hannah announces, lifting her chin stubbornly.

Pamela rolls her eyes and informs Elizabeth, “She’s been telling everyone that lately. Babe has always been Frank’s nickname for me, and I guess she just—I don’t know, maybe she’s jealous. You know how little girls love their daddies.”

No, I don’t know that
, Elizabeth thinks.
I’ve never had a daddy to love. Or a mom
.

“Anyway,” Pamela continues, “you’d think I wouldn’t be as worried about SIDS this time around, but every night, there I am, hopping out of bed a thousand times to check and make sure Jason’s still breathing.”

Pamela plops Hannah in the passenger seat of the car and pulls the seat belt snugly over her, continuing to talk. “I think I’m worse than I was after Hannah was born, but you know, boys have a higher risk than girls do. Frank said that if I don’t stop being so neurotic about Jason, he’s going to start sleeping on the couch—Frank, not Jason—but I can’t help it.”

“Shouldn’t she be in a car seat?” Elizabeth asks when Pamela pauses for a breath. “I mean, isn’t it illegal to—”

“The seat belt is fine for now. She’s big for her age. Anyway, you’re driving only a few blocks, and you’re a safe driver. I trust you. If you get stopped, just tell them she’s Frank’s child, and they won’t fine you.”

“But I don’t—”

“No big deal, Liz,” Pamela assures her. “Trust me.”

“But it’s not—”

“I’m her mother. I wouldn’t do anything mat would put her in danger, would I? There you go, sweet-pea. Listen to Aunt Liz.” Ignoring Elizabeth’s protest, Pamela plants a kiss on Hannah’s head, sticks another cracker into her hand, and delivers the box and a bedraggled stuffed skunk to Elizabeth.

“She’s had her nap and she’ll be fine without a snack since she has her crackers, although if you happen to have any fruit or juice around, she’ll probably love it. But not bananas. I’m positive she’s allergic to bananas, even though the doctor says she isn’t. I should be back at around four. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Elizabeth numbly shakes her head.

“You’re a sweetie. Anytime you need a favor, you just ask,” Pamela says, collapsing the stroller with a single practiced move. “Want to open your trunk? I can just shove this in there. Or I can put it in the backseat, but the wheels might be kind of yucky. I dunk we rode right through a pile of doggie you-know-what on Front Street.”

“Dog poopie,” Hannah clarifies, bouncing in the front seat. “Pee-eeuh. Dog poopie stinks.”

“I’ll pop the trunk,” Elizabeth says hurriedly, and hits the button on the door handle.

“She’s at that age when all she wants to do is talk about you-know-what,” Pamela confides, putting the stroller into the car.

“Poopie,” Hannah announces happily. “Poopie, poopie, poopie.”

“If I tell her not to say it, she does it even more, so I just ignore it,” Pamela whispers to Elizabeth, then says, “Hey, this is a new car! I just realized it. It’s really nice. Look how clean the upholstery is. Hannah, don’t smear anything on Aunt Liz’s seat.”

Elizabeth glances inside the car to see that the toddler has already left a sticky cracker-colored smudge beside her dimply leg.

Pamela doesn’t seem to notice. She’s running a fingertip along the hood of the car. “I love the color, Liz—very sporty. You know what Frank says? That there’s a better chance of getting stopped by the cops if you’re driving a red car.”

“Really?” Elizabeth keeps her voice carefully neutral, thankful for the sunglasses that shield her eyes from her neighbor’s scrutiny. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they think people who drive red cars are more daring—the types who might be smuggling drugs or something. Who knows? Frank’s not on traffic patrol anymore. Well, we’ve got to run, don’t we, Jason-boy? Thanks again, Liz.”

“No problem,” she lies, and gets into the car beside Hannah.

“Where Mommy go?” Hannah asks in alarm, watching as Pamela and Jason stroll off down the street.

“Your mommy and Jason have to go someplace, sweetie, but I’m going to take you home with me,” Elizabeth says, fastening her seat belt, putting the key into the ignition, and smiling reassuringly at the child.

Hannah contemplates that for a moment, then opens her mouth and lets out a screech.

“Hannah want Mommy!”

“No, it’s okay, Hannah,” Elizabeth says, reaching over and catching the little girl’s hands, which are clawing at the door handle. “We’re going to have such fun together, you’ll see.”

“Hannah want Mommy!”

“But if you go with Mommy, you’ll have to go to the doctor’s office. That’s where she’s taking Jason.”

“The doctor?” Hannah stops clawing, but she’s still sobbing.

“Yes, and you’ll have to have a shot.”

“A shot? No! No! Hannah don’t want a shot!” Hannah cries harder, shaking her little head back and forth so quickly that she’s a blur of bobbing blond curls.

“If you come with me, you don’t have to have one,” Elizabeth says, and Hannah calms down. She picks up her skunk from the seat and cuddles him against her cheek, sticking her thumb in her mouth.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Elizabeth starts the car and backs out of the spot. She heads down busy North Main Street through the heart of Windmere Cove, past the white clapboard Congregational church and the redbrick town hall and the row of green awnings that front a cluster of shops.

At the end of North Main she makes a right onto tree-lined Center Street, which runs along the waterfront. It’s dotted with bait and tackle shacks and fish markets and a few small, no-frills pubs and cafes. Beyond the street and the shops, the deep blue sailboat-dotted waters of Narragansett Bay sparkle in the August sunshine.

“Daddy!” Hannah announces, taking her thumb out of her mouth and pointing.

Elizabeth glances in that direction and sees a white police car at the intersection of Center and Pine. The officer behind the wheel has a shock of white hair and he’s wearing glasses.

“That’s not your daddy, Hannah,” Elizabeth says, glancing at the speedometer as she passes the cop. She’s only going five miles above the speed limit, but, remembering what Pamela just said about red cars—and with Hannah not in a car seat to boot—she half expects a siren to sound behind her.

It doesn’t, of course. She’s noticed that here in Rhode Island, people seem to drive at breakneck speed without getting stopped.

“Hannah’s daddy,” Hannah insists, looking over her shoulder and sounding like she’s on the verge of tears.

“That’s not your daddy. Your daddy has dark hair, Hannah, remember? And a mustache. And he’s young. That man was old.”

“Daddy!”

“Hannah, when we get to my house, would you like some juice?” Elizabeth asks.

“Juice? Need juice. Okay.”

“What kind of juice?” She is mindlessly trying to distract Hannah, trying to relax, trying not to keep glancing in her rearview mirror as she drives two more blocks down Center.

What if the cop really had come after her? What if he asked to see her license?

It isn’t the first time she’s gone over that terrifying scenario.

She’ll have to say that her license is expired and that she doesn’t have it with her—which, in a sense, is the truth.

She thinks of the license back at home, the expired one from Illinois that bears the name Elizabeth Baxter and a photo that looks strikingly like her.

She should probably get rid of it. If anyone ever found it and connected her …

“Need juice,” Hannah says urgently.

“I know you do, Hannah. But what kind? I have apple … and orange …”

She turns right onto Green Garden Way, following the road as it curves past the dead end sign.

Hannah has decided on apple juice by the time Elizabeth pulls into the driveway of the small gray-shingled, white-shuttered Cape Cod she’s been renting, fully furnished, for nearly five years.

When the middle-aged woman who lived there passed away shortly before Elizabeth came to town, she left the place to her only son, who is overseas in the military. He presumably plans to return someday, having chosen not to put the place on the market.

Elizabeth doesn’t like to think about what she’ll do when that happens. It wasn’t easy to find a suitable house in her price range, and an apartment or town house is out of the question. The last thing she wants is close daily contact with neighbors.

The house is set way back from the street and fronted with three tall maple trees and a row of shrubs that offer considerable privacy—not that Green Garden Way is exactly teeming with activity. It’s a hushed, pleasant neighborhood of small ranch houses and one-story Cape Cods, populated mostly by retired people with grown children.

Janet Kravinski, the local Realtor who had rented the house to Elizabeth, had promised peace and quiet when Elizabeth told her she would be working from a home office.

“In the back and on one side, your neighbor would be the woods,” she’d told Elizabeth over the phone the day she’d called about the listing. “On the other, there’s an eighty-year-old woman who’s very sweet. I don’t think she’ll be having wild drug parties,” she’d joked, and Elizabeth had forced a laugh.

“In any case,” Janet had gone on, “New Englanders tend to pretty much keep to themselves, so I don’t think there will be a problem.”

That Yankee disdain for outsiders was one reason Elizabeth had chosen to move there, but Janet Kravinski didn’t know that.

Another thing Janet Kravinski didn’t know was that the eighty-year-old woman next door would die only a year after Elizabeth moved in, and that her house would be sold to Frank and Pamela Minelli.

Pamela may have been born and raised in Massachusetts, but she never, ever kept to herself. The day they’d moved in, she’d come bouncing across the yard to introduce herself and Hannah, who was a month old then. She’d asked all kinds of personal questions too.

About Elizabeth’s work as a writer—a lie—and about why she’d gotten divorced from her husband—another lie—and about where she’d grown up, and so on and so on.

If Pamela noticed Elizabeth was reticent about answering her countless queries, she hadn’t let on.

And since that first day, Pamela hasn’t asked many more questions. She’s the kind of self-absorbed person, Elizabeth has discovered, who talks endlessly about herself and her husband and her kids.