She turns, looking guilty. “It got left on,” she says. “I didn’t want you to get in trouble.”
“Oh.” My shoulders slump. I leave the cookies and walk over to Paisley, squatting down in front of her. “Hey, I’m sorry. That was my bad, not yours. Next time just tell me if I screw something up, okay?”
She nods. “Deal.”
I give her shoulder a squeeze, then press the oven’s off button firmly with my thumb. I tell myself it’s not a big deal. It’s not like the house was going to burn down while we went out for a couple hours. But if Emilia had noticed, or Mary, they might not agree. My stomach churns, and I have to force my eyes away from the well-stocked liquor cabinet above my head.
Five minutes later, the plates of cookies are stacked in a tote bag along with a couple water bottles and sunscreen, and Paisley and I are off. The air along the driveway is even stickier than it was on the patio, and by the time we reach the road, my skin is coated in a thin sheen of sweat. The clouds have mostly cleared, and the sun is out in full blazing force, turning the petals of the rain-soaked azaleas into shiny pink mirrors as we pass. Damp tendrils of hair cling to the back of my neck, and I run my fingers along my bare wrist, searching for an elastic that isn’t there. I take the sunscreen out of my bag and make Paisley stop so I can coat both our faces and arms before we continue on.
Paisley has four stops planned on our route, the first of which is two houses down on Linden Lane, in the same direction we walked yesterday into town. Claudia, Paisley explains to me as we buzz at their gate and wait to be let in, is less than a year older but a grade ahead due to how their birthdays fall. She used to be Paisley’s best friend until last spring, when Claudia confided in her that she was getting teased for hanging out with a second grader. There’s a crackling at the intercom and we introduce ourselves. As the gates swing open, Paisley wrinkles her nose. “She’s been extra nice to me since school let out. Like when no one from her grade is around, she thinks things can just go back to normal.”
“Well, it’s nice of you to bring her cookies. Eventually she’s going to realize that good friendships are much more important than the opinions of some girls who don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“And if she doesn’t, it’s her mistake. You deserve people in your life who are going to have your back.”
Paisley is still beaming up at me when the door opens to reveal a plump woman with frosted, spiky blond hair. She’s dressed in all black save for a giant red statement necklace, and her eyes are heavily made up with black liner and mascara. She looks like she belongs in the West Village, not the Hamptons.
“Paisley!” she exclaims while I twist my hair behind me and tuck it down the back of my tank top in an effort to minimize what I’m starting to think of as the Zoe-factor. I keep my sunglasses on.
“Hi, Mrs. Cooper.” Paisley turns her smile toward the woman, who is presumably Claudia’s mom.
“I’m Anna,” I say, extending my hand. “Paisley’s nanny.”
Mercifully, there’s no shock of recognition on the older woman’s face, no hand reaching to scrub across her eyes, no awkward double take. She takes my hand in hers, and I notice her nails are painted the same deep red as her necklace.
Mrs. Cooper graciously accepts Paisley’s offering of cookies, explaining that Claudia will be at a riding lesson until four. “We’re still on for tomorrow afternoon?” she asks.
I stare blankly.
“The girls have a pool date,” she says after a minute. “Just drop Paisley off at two. I thought Emilia might have mentioned it.”
Paisley nods and gives my hand a tug. “We talked about it at breakfast,” she reminds me.
“Oh, of course,” I murmur. We did? “We’re on,” I say with a smile. I need to get my head together.
The rest of our route takes us off Linden Lane and away from Main Street, deeper into residential Herron Mills. Two of the three families are home, and we spend an hour or so at the Paulson-Gosses, Paisley and Raychel running around