Friends and Strangers - J. Courtney Sullivan Page 0,59

Shop on the outskirts of town, where there were always a few wilting arrangements in a refrigerated case. She would no doubt ruin everything by bringing them baby’s breath or something equally objectionable.

Lilies are only suitable for a memorial service, Elisabeth had said once, and Sam cringed, thinking of how much she liked lilies and hadn’t realized until that moment that she shouldn’t.

“Clive suggested I bring them something too,” she told her mother, even though it wasn’t true, because it never hurt to frame Clive in a positive light. Her mother sometimes asked how he was doing, but she did so in such a pinched tone that Sam could tell she didn’t want an answer. Sam’s father never mentioned Clive at all.

Her family hadn’t met him yet. Sam’s mom asked her not to tell her siblings how old Clive was. She hadn’t told Clive that.

Her brother, Brendan, had been with his girlfriend Katie since eighth grade. Katie fit so seamlessly into their family that an outsider observing them might think she was a cousin. Brendan and Katie’s future was clearly drawn. They would marry, have two kids, buy a house in their hometown.

This was what Sam’s parents wanted for all their children. Sam was a pleaser, a good girl. She didn’t want to upset them. She wished they could understand that her being with Clive was not a form of rebellion. She had simply fallen in love.

* * *

—

On Fridays, Elisabeth saw her shrink at ten and went to Pilates at two-thirty. Sam didn’t know what she did in between, but she never came home before four. Other days of the week, Elisabeth might pop in and out, keeping Sam on her toes. If Gil was napping, Sam would wash all but one dirty dish, which she saved as a prop, to scrub when Elisabeth came through the door, giving the appearance that she was doing something other than sitting on the sofa, reading back issues of The New Yorker.

But on Fridays, she was unsupervised. On Fridays, Sam and Gil had their own routine. She hadn’t mentioned it to Elisabeth.

The second Friday in October, as usual, Sam filled two bottles with formula. She dressed the baby in his puffy red coat and soft fleece shoes, and strapped him into the stroller.

She left a note, in case: Gone for a walk!

Then she locked the door with the spare key Elisabeth had given her, and they were off.

Laurel Street was a pretty, tree-lined block. Black SUVs sat in most of the driveways, imposing as sentinels, guarding big houses in shades of white and gray. The modern mother would not be caught dead in a minivan. Though when you thought about it, an SUV was just a boxy version of the same. Sam once said as much to Elisabeth, who said, “Exactly. Andrew tried to talk me into getting one. But there is no way.”

Through the slats of backyard fences, Sam could make out signs of life. A fat Labrador lay on its side in the sun. A grandmother pushed a toddler on a swing. On front lawns, bicycles were tossed down and strollers left abandoned, for naptime or to catch a ringing telephone. The kind of people who lived here had no fear that when they came out again, these objects would be gone.

Foss-Lanford Hall stood at the farthest edge of campus, a five-minute walk from Elisabeth’s house. All Sam had to do was go to the end of Laurel, turn right on Main, then travel onward for two blocks until she reached the tall hedge that separated the college from the world. On one side was a yellow Victorian with a swing on the front porch; on the other, the plain brick building that housed Sam and a hundred of her peers.

No visitor to Foss-Lanford was ever so adored as Gil. In a matter of weeks, he had become the communal baby, a mascot of sorts. Sometimes Sam left him with someone while she ran to write a note on a friend’s whiteboard or grab coffee downstairs. Occasionally, when she returned, her room was empty. But she never worried. She knew Gil was safe in the arms of some besotted young woman.

Isabella burst into tears when she held him. Shannon would say, “I’m sorry, young man, but I am not a baby person,” before picking Gil up, and refusing to give him back.

Now, like most Fridays, Sam pushed the stroller down the long corridor that led to the dining