The Second Draft

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 it will be 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, two weeks 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 add social laughingstock or living off my ex’s alimony or I 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.”

Anne had never seen anyone before with a face that revealing, as though Sadie’s skin was just translucent enough to expose the feelings below.

Right now, her expression held sincere commiseration.

Not pity. Not the condescending looks Anne had received after the divorce news broke from the women who’d made up her social circle.

Empathy. That was what it was.

It made her feel—well, she wasn’t sure. Uneasy, yes. But at the kind understanding in Sadie’s eyes, some strange, unnamed craving leaped under Anne’s discomfort.

Usually, when faced with excess displays of emotion—or, really, any unrestrained emotion at all—Anne’s reflexive response was mild disgust, glazed with a light sheen of contempt.

She could control herself well enough to behave appropriately; why couldn’t everyone else?

But right now, strangely, Anne wasn’t repelled.

Somehow Sadie, using her sincerity, had pushed away any disgust and made room for Anne’s pain.

“You’re not sorry, though,” Sadie continued.

Anne started. “Excuse me?”

“You said you’re not sorry to be divorced.” Sadie cocked her head, the edges of her curly hair skimming her right shoulder. “That’s very interesting to me. You’re interesting to me. Why aren’t you sorry?”

For just a few seconds, vertigo swept over Anne.

“I told you, he’s gay. There’s no point in being sorry about a fact.

The marriage was over. It was time to move on.

For me, and”—she pointed her chin in the direction of the front walkway—“for both of us. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really do have to get going.

Thanks for stopping by. Best wishes for your explosion. ”

“I see.” It looked as though Sadie finally did. “Well, then, I’ll leave you be, along with my hope that the rest of the day’s gentle to you. Have a good afternoon, Anne.”

She turned and walked away.

Anne stared after her, at this loud, blunt woman who wanted a stranger’s day to be gentle, who’d looked at her with sincere compassion and warmth. So much warmth that, on a complete whim, she could just toss armfuls of it in Anne’s direction, with plenty left over.

You’re interesting to me, Sadie had said. As though in just minutes, she’d rummaged under Anne’s cool, detached exterior and touched something hidden that might be worth keeping.

Anne felt her lips slowly part, the breath high in her chest. Without her permission, an impulse began to bubble in her mouth.

Sadie was nearly at the end of the stone walkway.

“I never loved him,” Anne called out, and then nearly clapped her hand over her mouth, which opened on a gasp.

Sadie stopped. Spun around. No surprise waited for Anne on that open face. Even more incredibly, no judgment either. Just calm acceptance.

“Ever?” she asked evenly. “Not even in the beginning?”

Shock and cold, sick realization gripped Anne’s throat.

She’d always told herself she did love James, at least in those early years.

Told herself and told herself until she’d been convinced, mostly, and now the decades-long slow leak of that conviction had finally drained out right here, in her doorway, in front of someone she’d just met.

She’d never been in love with James.

Admired him—yes. Cared about him—yes. Had a connection with him—yes.

But when Anne, her mouth dry and sour, thought back over her marriage, the strongest feeling she could remember was the sharp, bright satisfaction that came with doing what she was supposed to do: married an ambitious man from a good family, had his children, supported his career.

Exactly what everyone—especially Anne’s mother—had wanted for her.

What was more humiliating? Thirty years of your husband lying to you, or thirty years of you lying to yourself?

“Not ever?” Sadie repeated. “You never loved him?”

Some unknown and terrible force shook Anne’s head from side to side.

Sadie nodded. Just once.

They stood there for a moment looking at each other. Anne, her stomach twisting with horror, felt exactly as though she’d tripped and dropped her ugly, naked soul on the ground between them. Any second now, Sadie would run away from what was rotten and squirming and never should have seen daylight.

Finally, Sadie announced, “We’re going to be friends.”

Anne recoiled, stunned. “What? Why?”

“Because, you fascinating thing,” Sadie told her, “I want to know what you do love.”

She turned again and marched off toward her house, curls bouncing.

It took Anne a full thirty seconds to collect herself and close the front door. She was breathing quickly. Her heart hit against her rib cage like rain on the pavement.

“What the fuck,” she said out loud to herself. “What did you just do? Why did you tell her that?”

And a small, clear voice in the back of her head—a voice Anne Lowell had never heard before in her entire life—answered immediately.

She asked.