for eleven years. They have shared history, laughter, tears. When Charlie suffered three miscarriages in a row after Paige was born, Kit was the one on whose shoulder she cried.
And when Emma was born, it was Kit who threw the baby shower, Kit who gathered her friends together and made beautiful favors of miniature bassinets stuffed with embroidered good ies, Kit who took care of Emma when Charlie had to be somewhere for Paige.
They met Tracy at an event called Cocktails, Creators and Chat, just over a year ago. In aid of one of the local breast cancer charities, it was a monthly event that had guest speakers, and women all over Highfield insisted their husbands get the earlier train home, or found a babysitter, and they filled the hall of the local theater, sipping cosmos and chattering excitedly, so thrilled to be away from their families for the night.
Tracy stepped up to the stage, gorgeous with her long, blonde hair, her fresh-faced Californian beauty, and she talked about her love of yoga, her journey from being a girl who leaped from one drama to another, to a woman who had finally found peace.
Her speech affected Kit, particularly. She was coming out of the haze of her divorce, and was starting to enjoy her life, to feel serenity during the weekends she was all alone, rather than a crippling fear.
Kit had approached Tracy afterward, a little intimidated by both Tracy’s confidence and her beauty. “I loved your talk.”
“Thank you.” Tracy smiled. “I love being able to share some of my journey with women, especially those of us who are on a similar path.”
“Well, I just got divorced, so it was more than a little relevant.”
“How are you doing? ” Tracy asked, placing a hand on Kit’s arm, and Kit found herself talking to Tracy as if she were an old friend, an instant bond between them.
Part of the gift bag that night had been a free yoga session at Tracy’s new studio, Namaste.
“Will you come? ” Tracy said, as she was being pulled away to talk to other women.
“Sure,” Kit said, thinking, suddenly, and sadly, that Tracy was only being a good businesswoman.
“No, seriously. I want you to come. I don’t often meet other single women and I think it’s really important to have girlfriends. Honestly, I could do with some single girlfriends. Will you come? Make sure it’s one of my classes and we can have some tea afterward. Can we do that? ”
Kit’s face lit up. “I’d love to,” she said.
The following week she and Charlie did exactly that, and by the time they had all finished their tea and had sat chatting and laughing for over an hour, they were firm friends.
Chapter Three
Edie is stooped over, pulling at the roses to bring them closer so she can deadhead them, when she hears Kit’s car pull into the driveway.
Many years ago, Edie knew all of her neighbors. She grew up in this same house, and remembers sitting on the front porch every night, watching the procession of neighbors pass the house, all of them stopping to wander over and say hello, most of them with dogs by their side.
She, and all the other kids on the street, would leave the house at dawn and rarely reappear until dusk, zipping around the neighborhood on bikes, taking pitchers of iced water to the fields across the street and collapsing under huge weeping maples when they got too hot and bothered.
“Don’t misbehave,” their mothers would tell them as they ran out through the back door in the morning. “One of us will see, and you know we’ll tell.” And it was true, for every mother on the street was at home, and all of them considered the children of the neighborhood their own children—if someone misbehaved, it was their right to reprimand, no matter who the child in question belonged to.
When it rained they would sit under the covered porches playing Sorry!, Monopoly, or Chutes and Ladders.
Summers were filled with cookouts, and if you were spotted in the street, you were invited in, friend, neighbor or stranger. It didn’t matter.
Over the years, Edie has got used to seeing fewer and fewer people on her street. She spends time in her front yard, carefully training the roses over the picket fence, weeding the beds, cutting back the bayberry, and every time she hears a sound she looks up hopefully, but not so many people walk past these days.
The daily routine around here