away the untouched hors d’oeuvres and replaced them with dessert—chocolate-covered strawberries, cookies, and cupcakes and brownies, none of which anyone ate.
“How are things at your house, Elisabeth?” Melody asked.
Elisabeth wasn’t sure what to say. So few words had been directed at her tonight that, like some electronic device, she was still switched on but had gone into sleep mode.
“They’re—good,” she said.
“All unpacked?”
“Yes, finally.”
She had unpacked immediately upon moving in, but that seemed annoying to admit. Elisabeth was good at unpacking, good at anything finite that required no real deliberation.
“No trouble with water in the basement?” Melody said.
“No.”
“We haven’t had much rain since they moved in,” Pam pointed out. “Wait until the snow starts. That’s the real test.”
“It must be a huge change,” Melody said. “Where did you live in the city?”
“Brooklyn. Carroll Gardens.”
“Did you own or rent?”
“We owned.”
“That’s a pricey area, isn’t it?”
“We got a great deal on our place,” Elisabeth said, trying to sound breezy.
The conversation was beginning to feel like an interrogation.
“You owned in Brooklyn before it got super hot?” Melody said. She threw her head back. “Why can’t I be one of those people who make genius real estate decisions?”
Elisabeth felt proud of herself, though she said, “We just got lucky, buying when we did.”
“Maybe your luck will rub off on us, and Laurel Street will shoot up in value soon,” Melody said. “We were so glad when you bought that house. For the longest time, I thought no one ever would.”
“Why?” Elisabeth said. “Is it haunted?”
She was joking, but they all looked down into their laps.
“Mrs. Dillon’s mother did die there, and it was a terrible death, but no. I doubt it’s haunted,” Melody said. “It’s just that they were lazy. They didn’t take care of things. I remember walking into the open house, and there was this huge crack in the wall right there in the entryway. I pointed it out to Maureen, the listing agent. We’re old friends. I said ‘Maureen, that’s structural.’ And she said no, it wasn’t, it was a crack in the paint. I said, ‘I’ve been doing this for fifteen years, I know what I’m looking at.’ So then Maureen looked at me and whispered, ‘Suckers from the city seeking charm. That’s my only hope.’ ”
“Melody!” Stephanie said.
“What? I’m teasing. It’s such a nice house. The pride of the block. You got it inspected, didn’t you?”
“Where did you grow up, Elisabeth?” Stephanie said.
“California. Sacramento.”
“Are your folks still out there?”
She didn’t feel like telling the whole story, so she just said yes.
“That must be hard, being apart from your mom when you have a new baby,” Stephanie said.
Something she felt like talking about even less.
“Speaking of,” Elisabeth said. “I hope this isn’t too much information, but I should go home and nurse. I’m very—full.”
“We’ve all been there,” Stephanie said. “Isn’t it the worst? But don’t leave. I have an old pump you can use around here somewhere.”
“I brought mine.”
Elisabeth regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.
She excused herself to go to the bathroom.
She had to pass through the kitchen to get there. The word EAT was spelled out on the wall in giant red metal letters. Perhaps Stephanie needed a regular reminder of what the room was for.
Elisabeth pinched her own wrist. Banana. She sounded obnoxious, even to herself.
Oh, but those women were awful.
In the bathroom, she set up the yellow pump on the counter, plugged it into the wall, slid the cups into two slits in her bra, and turned it on.
She stood against the sink and listened to the slurping sound of the machine as it extracted her milk.
She texted Nomi. I’m in hell.
Elisabeth waited for a reply, but none came. Even though she knew Nomi was probably putting the kids to bed, Elisabeth pictured her out for dinner with fabulous new friends.
At least she could sit in here alone for twenty minutes.
She wished she had thought to record the conversation, or that she had brought a pen and paper to take notes. Maybe there was a book in all this. The pitfalls of trying to make friends in middle age, or suburban moms who drink too much.
It was her way of drawing a line between them and herself, playing the observer so she didn’t have to care whether or not she fit in. She’d been doing it all her life. Andrew said she was like this because she was a writer, but he had that backward; she was a writer because she