The Sweet Spot: A Novel

The Sweet Spot

A Novel

An absolute delight… Amy Poeppel has the freshest, funniest voice around. —Jane Green, New York Times bestselling author of Sister Stardust

Amy Poeppel

Author of Small Admissions

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In memory of my parents, Pamela and Jere Mitchell.

The sweet spot is where duty and delight converge.

—Thomas Mann

If you listen, truly listen, to an adversary, you will probably find at least one goal on which you agree.

—Gloria Steinem

Prologue

Felicity had walked by the brownstone on Waverly Place dozens of times without ever noticing it. The homes in this neighborhood were charming, harkening back to bygone horse-and-buggy days, but this particular house, tired and unadorned, asked to be ignored. The building had reached a certain level of disrepair wherein it was neither eye candy nor an eyesore. It was simply unremarkable. But the location! Felicity could not imagine how a potter could have landed such prime real estate in Greenwich Village, the only corner of Manhattan—with its rows of town houses and its famous park, mews and alleys, elms and sycamores—that reminded her of the best parts of London.

Looking up to double-check the number next to the peeling red door, she wondered: Was the ivy damaging the brick facade? Was the interior equally shabby? If so, would they gut the whole building? Install central air? Would they kick out that dive bar in the basement and move the entrance to the lower level? Or dig deeper to build a garage?

As she climbed the worn stairs, her sandal caught on a broken step and the thin, blush-colored strap across her toes snapped. She took the shoe off, cursing under her breath, and rang the bell. She heard children shrieking from inside and placed a hand over her belly where her own little offspring, the size—according to her OB—of a turnip, was floating around obliviously, tethered to her insides.

When the door opened, a small girl (Five? Nine? Felicity wasn’t especially familiar with the developmental stages of young people) and a large dog crowded the entry, both of them electrified by her arrival.

Mommy! the girl yelled into the expanse behind her. There’s a lady!

Lauren came to the door, her hair half falling out of its clip. Come in, come in! she said, trying to restrain the dog from drooling on Felicity’s tiered dress. "Bumper, no! She clipped a leash on him. We rescued him last week; he’s three already, but you sure wouldn’t know it. He’s a handful."

I apologize for inviting myself last minute, Felicity said, still standing in the doorway, but I wanted to chat in person.

No, I’m happy you came, she said. We’re in mid-move, so forgive the chaos.

Felicity was used to people apologizing for the state of their homes, even when those homes were lovely. It wasn’t easy, she knew, to welcome a designer of some renown into one’s living space. Felicity’s TV show, still going strong after six seasons, demanded (for the sake of entertainment) that she say insulting things to the homeowner-victim-guests. But that was not, she had to explain all the time, who she was; that was only a persona. She was—in reality reality—perfectly kind and polite. Besides, Felicity had not come to the brownstone to judge.

Watch your step, Lauren said as they entered the living room, and Felicity did, maneuvering around unpacked boxes, over stacks of books, and past dizzyingly unattractive seventies wallpaper. They went through the dining room and into the kitchen, with its avocado-green appliances and orange Formica countertops, to the back of the house, which had a door opening onto a deck. I thought we could sit out here, Lauren said, since it’s so warm.

The children—there were three of them—were planting something in terra-cotta pots, their hands caked with dirt. The dog put his head in the watering can.

Your sandal! Lauren said, noticing that Felicity had one bare foot as she stood on the splintered deck.

It broke, Felicity said with a little lift of her shoulders, the sandal hanging off her pinky. It wasn’t tragic, but it was disappointing; she’d bought them last week on Bond Street in Mayfair.

Charles, Lauren said to the tallest child, taking the sandal and putting it in his muddy hands, be a clever boy and see if you can fix this. Lauren took that moment to introduce Felicity to her kids: Charles, Harrell, Waverly, and, of course, Bumper, this is Mommy’s new friend, Felicity.

"Did you say Waverly? Felicity said. Like your street?"

Leo grew up here, Lauren said, running a hand over the girl’s long hair, and we always loved the name.

It’s beautiful, said Felicity.

Leo’s mother was Charley Aston, Lauren said. I don’t know if you’ve heard of her, but this was her house.

Really? How remarkable. Felicity had indeed heard of Charley Aston, a pioneer of the American feminist movement, though she’d never seen one of her plays.

We love the neighborhood, Lauren said, but the noise at night takes a little getting used to.

I live nearby, closer to the Hudson, said Felicity. It’s a smidge less lively.

Oh, you’re a neighbor, Lauren said happily. I didn’t realize.

The children were fascinated by the task of repairing a real shoe that was meant for a grown-up’s actual foot.

I know what to do, the shorter boy said.

Surgery, said Waverly.

Felicity loved an original name, but she didn’t love the idea of these scruffy children messing with her footwear. Before she could object, they took her sandal inside, conspiring about what would work best. A stapler? Duct tape? Glue? A soldering iron?

They’re between schools right now, Lauren said, as if explaining their availability to take on this job.

I’m sorry?

We moved boroughs, and it got complicated to transfer schools so close to the end of the academic year. So we’re homeschooling.

A little alarm went off in Felicity’s head. Homeschooling was surely time-consuming. Have you hired a governess or something? A tutor?

Lauren laughed. Nope, just me, she said, and indicated the soil on the deck and the seedlings in the pots with pride. She must have seen the look on Felicity’s face because she quickly added, Oh, it’s only for a few months. They’ll start at Perkins in the fall.

She gestured with her arm, offering Felicity a chair. Felicity brushed off the seat before she sat down, putting her Celine bag on her lap to hide her baby bump, and looked out over the barren yard; in spite of the unseasonable warmth, the trees had yet to put out a single leaf. There was opera coming from an open rear window of another brownstone across the way, a house that had been made over top to bottom with a copper PH Artichoke lamp hanging dramatically over the dining room table. Everything at Lauren’s, on the other hand, from the rotting porch railing to the dog’s smelly fur to Lauren’s tired overalls, needed freshening. There were few arguments Felicity could come up with for conserving or treasuring the old and worn, and in this case, what she would do is blow out the whole back side of the house, replacing the north-facing wall with a Swiss-made, pivoting glass door that would let in the light and create a seamless transition to the outdoors.

So, Felicity said, coming to the point of her visit, your samples arrived at our office last week, and they’re stunning. My team created an Instagram teaser to test the market, and it got over thirty thousand clicks in the first hours.

Lauren put her hands to her cheeks. She wore very little makeup. From the moment they’d met a few months before, Felicity had instantly liked something about this woman—her lack of artifice maybe. Her edginess was apparent only in the context of her work; she was the type of open, sweet human Felicity thought she should be friends with. And she likely knew a thing or two about mothering in New York City, a skill Felicity now considered interesting and even useful. Like this school—Perkins?—that her kids would go to; was it too soon to put her fetus on a waitlist?

I’m not even on Instagram, Lauren said. Thirty thousand sounds like… a lot.

It’s very promising, said Felicity. And I’m not surprised. There’s something about the way you combine the appealing with the abhorrent that speaks to the zeitgeist. People want joy, but they feel evil lurking. Or maybe they want to know beauty can exist in spite of mutating germs. Felicity felt she’d explained enough; she had a sense for what people wanted, and Lauren’s pieces were going to sell.

I made you something, Lauren said, to express my gratitude for even considering my work. She looked giddy, almost childlike, as she reached beside her chair and handed Felicity a fat ball of newsprint. Felicity unwrapped the layers of wrinkled paper and found one of Lauren’s pieces: a porcelain teapot with delicate sprigs of lavender hand-painted on the side and, of course, one of her signature grotesqueries: a revolting brown worm crawling along the spout. Felicity lifted the lid and to her delight, found a slug depicted on the underside.

Oh, I love it, said Felicity. "It’s classic you."

The only bad part of moving to this house, Lauren said, her eyes still on the teapot, is that my studio is way out in Brooklyn. It was only a block away from our old apartment, but it’s going to be a tough commute now.

You might want to find a new studio, then, Felicity said, because I have an offer for you. We’d like to sell your pieces exclusively this fall. We’ll feature them in our window displays on Mercer and Madison Avenue and possibly in LA too.

Lauren made a squealing sound. Are you serious?

Quite, Felicity said.

Given the look of utter shock and disbelief on Lauren’s face, Felicity hoped this ceramist was up to the challenge. An opportunity to be on the shelves of her store was far beyond any craft fair where Lauren had sold her pieces before, like at the holiday pop-up market where Felicity had discovered Lauren in the first place.

Lauren got up abruptly and went inside; was the pressure too much for her? Maybe her excitement needed to be expressed in private? Maybe she needed a moment to think? Felicity had no idea. The dog lifted his big head and drooled, watching her in a way she found slightly terrifying, his tail wagging through the wet potting soil the kids had splattered on the deck. Felicity did not move.

To her relief, Lauren returned. She had tears in her eyes and an open bottle of Freixenet under her arm. She handed Felicity a glass filled almost to the rim and held up another, saying, This is unreal. I never in a million years imagined my stuff being sold at a place like Felicity.

"Stuff? Felicity said as she placed her champagne on the table. An original work of art like this—she held up the little round teapot—will be priced starting at five hundred dollars. You’re going to be a household name. Well, an upper-class household name anyway."

Incredible, Lauren said, wiping her cheek with the sleeve of her plaid shirt. She sat back down and took a sip of her champagne. The glass had red lipstick, clearly not Lauren’s, ground into the rim. How will I ever thank you for finding me?

I like to think we found each other, Felicity said.

No, really, Lauren said, briefly placing a hand on Felicity’s wrist, I was starting to worry I’d never get my career back on track after having kids. They can really break up a trajectory, you know? And then you came along.… You amaze me, really, and not just because of what you’re doing for me. When I think about all you’ve built in such a short time? It’s phenomenal.

Felicity did not believe that children should ever be allowed to knock a woman’s career off course, and she hoped Lauren’s kids would not get in her way now; the order Felicity was placing would require Lauren to commit fully to her work.

Leo! Lauren said as a man came through the door and joined them on the deck. Come say hi.

The dog, his leash dragging on the ground, bounded over to greet Lauren’s husband, who was wearing a helmet, the strap still clipped under his chin. There was some kind of zip tie around the right leg of his ill-fitting khaki pants.

Hello there, yes, welcome, he said, shaking her hand too hard.

Where, Felicity wondered, would one begin to make over this man? The wire-rimmed glasses? The black tube socks? The T-shirt that had some kind of triangular diagram with the caption, Here’s looking at Euclid?

He leaned over and hugged his wife, the top of her head lodged in his armpit. He smiled at his dog, at the unattractive porch, at the blue sky; Felicity had never seen a person look so utterly content with so little.

Looks like you’ll be in charge of the kids this summer, Lauren told him, because Felicity here is putting me to work, starting…?

Right away, said Felicity.

How exciting, Leo said, straightening his back in an exaggerated way. Corporal Aston reporting for duty. And he gave a silly salute.

Lauren did not seem the least embarrassed. The kids are inside trying to repair Felicity’s shoe, she said. Can you make sure they’re not going overboard with the hot-glue gun?

Felicity flinched at the very idea, but Leo seemed intrigued, tapping his lips with his index finger. Ahh, he said, the craft of the cobbler, and he nodded wisely. He then pretended to doff his cap, saying in a lame attempt at a British accent, At your service, m’ladies, and backed up through the kitchen door, opening it with his rear end.

Lauren was smiling. If we give them enough time, they could probably replicate your sandals in the 3D printer.

Felicity doubted that very much; they were Alexander McQueen.

But something about the dynamic between these two appealed to her. Leo took orders from Lauren; did that come naturally or had she trained him? Or was it a perfect combination of nature and nurture?

So, how does this work? Felicity said, pointing from Lauren to the space her husband had just occupied.

What do you mean?

Having a partner who’s so dedicated to you? A supportive person by your side, day in and day out?

Lauren looked confused at first, but then her eyes opened wide. Felicity! Have you met someone special?

Felicity felt herself blush. Guilty, she said.

Wow, that’s great, Lauren said. I somehow thought… On your show once—or was it in an interview?—you said—

"I told the women on The View that having a life partner was not for me. And I meant it. But then I happened to meet this man, and things have changed, or it seems so anyway."

That’s wonderful, said Lauren.

Was it though? Felicity wasn’t sure the specific circumstances would fit Lauren’s idea of wonderful.

It’s a tad complicated, she said. I’ve become involved with someone who’s technically unavailable.

"Oh. Is he… married?" Lauren said, dropping her voice to a whisper, like she hadn’t known such a thing was even possible.

Unfortunately, yes.

Lauren seemed to require a moment to process that information, looking as though she were being asked to swallow the slug she’d painted on the teapot. Oh, dear, she said.

Their marriage is devoid of passion, Felicity said, while he and I have this intense connection. He’s so… solid, you know? He’s a lawyer and absolutely brilliant. He adores me.

Lauren nodded, hanging on her every word.

And then, Felicity said, we were utterly astonished when—and this is confidential, so please keep this between us—I somehow got pregnant. As soon as the words came out, Felicity regretted sharing them. Aside from Russell, she had not told a single person this monumental news, not a friend and certainly not anyone she knew professionally. A baby had not been in her plans, but she also knew this would likely be her last opportunity to become a mum, which was something she thought she might like to do, though not something she wanted to do entirely on her own. With the right partner, however, it might be nice to push a pram down a New York City sidewalk, or snuggle a baby wearing one of the white French terry-cloth onesies she sold in her boutique, or share pictures of her pregnancy journey on Instagram.

Gosh, Felicity! Lauren was beaming at her, and Felicity wondered if she was really happy for her or if she was merely excited to have a minor celebrity confiding in her. Congratulations, she said. How far along are you?

Not far at all, Felicity said. This was not true, but due to the loose, graceful cut of her dress, her naturally slim hips, and her personal trainer, she was barely showing. "It took me—it took both of us—totally by surprise. He wants to leave her, his wife. But I said no, absolutely not. I cannot be responsible for the death of a marriage. And I could raise a child by myself."

Of course you can, said Lauren with an encouraging nod of her head.

"But I don’t especially want to. Given my rather intense career, being a single mother would present big challenges. And this lovely man keeps telling me how much he wants to be a father. That’s sweet, right?"

Lauren looked down and patted her scruffy dog on his head. Yes, well… If there’s no passion between them, like you said, and if he really wants to raise the… boy? Girl…?

Felicity knew the answer to that already but kept it to herself. He wants this baby more than I do, she said, and laughed, although she wasn’t being funny; he actually did. He’s a sensitive, caring man, so he’s in anguish about his wife, who sounds dreadfully dull. She sighed and waved a fly away from her face. But what he wants most of all is to be the baby’s father.

How sad, said Lauren. I can’t imagine telling Leo that he’s not part of our family.

But that’s exactly what I did, Felicity said. "Because I imagine his wife’s situation, and I feel so… bad. But bad" was not accurate. What she felt was more a nagging sense of being supposed to feel bad. It wouldn’t be a good optics for her brand anyway; she was not a home-wrecker of that sort.

Oh, how difficult, said Lauren, putting her hand back on Felicity’s arm.

Lauren was looking at her so earnestly then that Felicity found it almost off-putting.

"I mean, people do get divorced, Felicity said curtly. It’s a reality. And the baby has me rethinking everything. Russell and I have tried to stay away from each other, but it’s proving to be difficult, especially now, given the new circumstances."

"Of course. If you two—I mean, if you three are meant to be together, I don’t know what choice you have."

I could tell him to bugger off and raise the child on my own.

I don’t see how you can tell the father—especially since you seem to love him and all—that he can’t be with his own baby, said Lauren.

And then she said, You’re kind of famous for having good instincts, right? I would trust those. Follow your heart.

Felicity put a hand to her chest, just as the baby caused some kind of faint flutter, a small ripple from deep within her. She did have good instincts; her entire career was based on her ability to know what was best. And her instincts were telling her that she needed him. If he would quit his job and agree to take the lead with the baby, then she would agree to be with him.

My instincts tell me we should be together.

Well, there you go, Lauren said.

Felicity sat back, tingling with resolve. Thank you so much, Lauren.

You’re welcome, said Lauren.

There was the slightest wrinkle in her brow, Felicity noticed. A Botox injection would clear that right up.

Yes, Felicity said, and she let out a huge breath. Her instincts had rarely failed her. "Follow your heart; oh, I love that." She slipped her foot out of her other sandal; she would take an Uber directly to Russell’s, barefoot and pregnant.

Felicity picked up her glass of champagne. I read that one little sip won’t hurt.

Act 1

Chapter 1

What Lauren remembered most about their first summer in Greenwich Village was her absence. She spent those hot, sticky days—away from her children and Leo—back in her Brooklyn studio, where she shaped pieces and then painted them with ferns, rabbit skulls, and quail bones. Petals, herbs, grasses, and leaves. Ants, worms, millipedes, maggots, spiders, and flies. Molted cicada shells and snake skins, cobwebs and beehives. She had several moments of panic in June when she grasped the full scale of the order that Felicity had placed and thought she’d never be able to finish by summer’s end. And she had several spells of elation in July when she’d completed all the footed cake plates and serving platters. She’d screamed bloody murder in August when she dropped a tray of coffee mugs on the floor, just as she was taking them out of the kiln. Over the sound of a fan blowing by the window, she played pop music and allowed herself to feel the joy she’d experienced back in art school when she’d first worked with porcelain—volatile, yes, but silky and delicate. She thought of her kids and Leo settling into the brownstone without her, taking the train to Coney Island, going to the Museum of Natural History, and she worked even harder, knowing she was getting closer with every passing day to meeting Felicity’s high and fabulous expectations.

Over the course of the summer, Lauren created something out of nothing, a collection of pieces she loved. Felicity, meanwhile, faded into the background, no longer checking in to give support or encouragement as she had at the outset of their collaboration. Rather, to Lauren’s disappointment, she was put in touch with an executive at the company named Courtney who would call to discuss—in a breathy voice full of anticipation and possibility—deadlines and quantities, packing supplies and couriers. Courtney could talk about Bubble Wrap in a way that made it sound sexy.

At the end of Labor Day weekend—in the nick of time—Lauren sent off all the promised dessert plates, fruit bowls, teacups and saucers, mugs, sugar pots, and creamers that would grace the shelves of Felicity, a store Lauren admired but couldn’t herself afford. Her hands were stiff, her eyes were strained, and her neck and shoulders ached. There wasn’t enough moisturizer in the world to heal the deep cracks in her fingertips. She left her studio that day, feeling like her entire body was surrounded by a plume of clay dust. She was looking forward to shifting gears now, to settling into the house, spending time with the kids, cooking, and walking the dog.

On the afternoon before the kids’ first day at their new school, Lauren was cleaning out the refrigerator when Courtney called to congratulate her: the pieces exceeded their expectations. Lauren took her phone outside and put her feet up on the back deck where she and Felicity had sipped champagne together on that warm day last spring. If she’d known then how much was going to be expected over the next several months, Lauren would have been in a state of panic that day rather than one of naive enthusiasm.

We’re obsessed with you and your whole aesthetic, Courtney said in her sultry voice. So what we’re thinking now is that we want you to round out the collection.

I’m sorry, what? Lauren sat up and put her feet back on the ground. What does that mean, she said, ‘round out’? Round out how?

Bumper darted outside, carrying something in his mouth.

Felicity has a new vision for your work. She doesn’t want anything outside your sphere. Just a few additional decorative pieces to take you beyond kitchen slash tabletop. She wants you to create bookends, for example. Flower vases. Desk accessories, like paperweights, pencil cups, and handles for letter openers. Lamp bases.

Sorry? Lauren tried to open the dog’s mouth to remove whatever he was chomping on, but he was too fast.

Lamp. Bases, Courtney said more slowly, as though she were describing a hot man’s body parts. We’ll provide you with measurements and specifications for the linen shades we have in mind. We also want large frames for mirrors and small ones for photographs. Knobs for furniture. I’ll email a full list.

Lauren couldn’t decide if she should whoop with excitement or burst into tears. What Courtney was describing would require hundreds of hours of work. That’s… amazing, she said, trying to stay calm. And you would need these pieces… when exactly? Please say December, she prayed. Please say next year.

Before the end of October. So what do you say? Courtney said, as if they were planning to run away together. Doesn’t that sound like fun?

Wow, Lauren said. Just wow. Holy sh— Thanks so much.

As soon as they hung up, Lauren put her head between her knees. Bumper dropped Charles’s retainer at her feet and licked her ear.

Whatcha doing? Leo asked, coming out to the porch. Is that yoga? Doodlebug pose? He patted her on the back.

I didn’t know you were home, she said, picking up the retainer, which was slobbery but unbroken, and sitting up. I don’t suppose you’d like to take a sabbatical? Spend some more quality time with the kids?

Sure would, he said, and I’m due for one in about… three years.

Well, that wouldn’t help. Houston, she said, we have a problem.

That night Lauren could hear the boys shouting upstairs over a game while she was rinsing Leo’s late mother’s plates in the deep cast-iron sink. Bumper was leaning into the open dishwasher, wagging his tail as he licked the remaining ketchup and salad dressing off the knives and forks Lauren dropped into the silverware basket. Leo and Waverly were sitting at the dinette table, working on a jigsaw puzzle they’d started weeks before. Lauren had insisted earlier that day that they finish the puzzle that night, not because she minded family meals on the back deck but because the kitchen would be the best place for the kids to do homework. But who would be overseeing the homework now?

Is there any way you could work from home a few afternoons a week? Lauren said.

Not this semester, Leo said, studying the puzzle. I teach a graduate seminar Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday; I have faculty and committee meetings Thursdays, and lab meeting every Friday.

I wish it stayed summer all year long, Waverly said. I like it better.

Not me, said Leo. "I love the start of the school year. I get new students to replace the ones who flew the nest. New pencils, new whiteboard markers. It’s a fresh start every fall."

What we need, Lauren said, scraping hamburger crud off a pan, is a sitter who can pick up after school and stay until one of us gets home from work. Lauren pictured a wonderful, young freelancer, someone who loved algebra and baking and needed a stable weekly income.

What if I don’t make any new friends? Waverly said.

Of course you’ll make friends, Leo said. They’d almost finished the puzzle but were still missing two shiny green beetles that looked enough alike in the picture that they were presenting a challenge. Second grade is going to be great. Ah, I wonder what you’ll learn this year. I hope you study photosynthesis. And paleontology. And Mesopotamia. Did you know the Mesopotamian number system was sexagesimal?

What? said Waverly.

A starving artist maybe, Lauren said. Someone energetic and responsible.

Sexagesimal, said Leo. It means based on sixty. Babylonian astronomers figured out how to predict eclipses. Isn’t that cool?

Lauren felt Leo should be focusing on the problem at hand, but paying attention was not one of Leo’s strengths. I wish we had someone who could start… tomorrow, she said, and then she laughed because it was so utterly preposterous.

Not tomorrow, said Waverly. "I want you to come get me."

Of course, said Lauren, rinsing a coffee cup under the water. I wouldn’t miss pickup on your first day at your new school. Private school, and the price tag attached to it, had never been part of Leo and Lauren’s plan. But when Phillip, Leo’s biological father, invited them to Christmas at the brownstone the year before, he offered them a whole new life in Greenwich Village.

Charley never wanted me to do anything for you, he’d said to Leo, as the kids made garlands out of ancient wrapping paper Phillip had found in the coat closet. She told me I was not allowed to take on the traditional patriarchal role—then he laughed—as if I would. But your mother isn’t here to lecture me anymore, and you’re the only family I have. And then he offered them use of the brownstone—I’m taking a new opportunity with an auction house in Berlin; I’ll be away for a couple of years or so, popping back to New York very rarely—and cash for tuition—What else am I going to do with my money? The little scamps should have it. Phillip packed his bags that spring and handed over the keys, and Lauren and Leo, thrilled at their good fortune—a house! a yard!—adopted Bumper.

Lauren studied the cup in her hand before putting it in the top rack of the dishwasher, wondering how it was any different from a pencil cup. Desk accessories really weren’t her thing.

The boys ran into the kitchen then, just as Leo was saying, Leave it to me. I can find a babysitter in no time.

I don’t need a babysitter, Charles said.

I do, said Harrell.

It might take a week or so, Leo said, but I can find someone who can do homework with you guys while Mommy and I are at work.

His confidence in the face of something so complicated irked Lauren. Some Mary Poppins, trained in CPR and crazy about kids, wasn’t going to appear out of the blue.

Who? said Charles.

Indeed, who? thought Lauren. Leo was brilliant, but he wasn’t always connected to the realities of life on earth.

Leo cleared his throat. Put up an ad on the university list serve, I will, hmmm? he said, doing his Yoda impression. Easy, it is.

Harrell laughed.

A student? Lauren gently nudged Bumper’s head out of the way to load a greasy plate. Her knuckles, so dried out from working with clay, were starting to sting from the water. That’s actually a great idea, she said. But it’s going to take time.

Her worry seemed to finally get through to Leo, and he looked up at the ceiling, thinking. Then he straightened his back and said brightly, Evelyn!

At the very mention of her mother, Lauren adjusted her posture as well. What?

Leo looked back at the puzzle and clicked two green pieces together, victorious. Evelyn, he said, even more enthusiastically this time. We could invite her to stay with us while we find someone. He switched back to Yoda’s voice, saying, Buy us time, it would.

Lauren dried her hands on the embroidered tea towel she’d tucked into the waist of her overalls and faced her husband. You want my mother to come?

Leo shrugged. Why not? For the first time ever, we’ve got room for her. She can have the whole third floor to herself. And it would be nice to have her around.

She doesn’t like… New York. Lauren had almost said She doesn’t like me, but didn’t want to say such a thing in front of her kids.

That’s because she never stays long enough to get comfortable, said Leo.

Lauren disagreed; a longer visit would likely make things worse, not better. I’m not ready to have her come here, Lauren said. We’re not at our best.

The faucet dripped behind her, and the yellow wall clock, which did not keep time accurately, ticked loudly.

What do you mean? Leo said.

The children were looking at Leo with the same expression as Lauren: as though they too were having a hard time imagining their strict grandmother in this rather scruffy setting.

Bumper pushed past Lauren to get to the other side of the open dishwasher, working another angle. The boys were eating ice cream out of the container and started sword fighting each other with their spoons.

Hate this house, she will, Waverly said, doing her own version of Yoda.

Lauren did not disagree.

But Leo looked hurt. "How could anyone hate this house? My childhood home? Come on, it’s a swell idea. The kids should spend some quality time with their only living grandmother. And we can reconnect with her, show her our life. It’ll be fun, and, bonus, it won’t cost us anything."

Not monetarily maybe, said Lauren. She moved Bumper’s head and closed the dishwasher. I don’t know how much help she would be. And she’s not going to approve of—Lauren looked through the kitchen and into the living room, where carpet frayed and the wallpaper peeled—Phillip’s decor.

There was a mangy, taxidermied hawk on the top of the bookshelf next to a broken lamp and a slide projector. There were board games and puzzles on the window seat and dog-eared anthologies of poetry and plays stacked under the coffee table. There was a sketch of a nude man, Phillip, by the look of him, although that had yet to be confirmed, over the fireplace. There were ashtrays—why were there ashtrays? No one here smoked—that still smelled of stale cigarettes, and there were framed pictures of strangers perched on every surface. The house was a time capsule from the 1970s, and even though they were living there for the time being, they didn’t feel permitted to make