For years, I had traveled from event to event, spending weekends in crowded arenas with score sheets in my hands. These days, I rarely thought about any of it.
My garden interested me more.
Every morning, I watered the hydrangeas, trimmed whatever needed trimming, and checked the roses my husband had planted along the fence.
These days, I rarely thought about any of it.
Then Audrey moved in next door.
She looked barely thirty, with glossy dark hair and the kind of energy that made even unloading moving boxes look like a social event.
“You must be Helen,” she said when I introduced myself.
I smiled. “And you must be Audrey.”
“Have we met?”
For a second, she simply stared at me.
“Have we met?” I finally asked.
Audrey’s expression changed immediately. “No. Sorry. You just look familiar.”
I forgot about it.
At first, she was pleasant enough. Then the
