The pool house gave her some privacy, but unfortunately there was no way to get to it without walking through the main house, so her parents always knew when she was coming and going. She couldn’t even bring in bags of groceries without her mother’s commentary. This was what her daydreams had come to. She fantasized about keeping a box of doughnuts on her kitchen counter and having no one comment on them.

She walked up the steps to her parents’ sprawling home, called Hickory Cottage because of the large number of hickory trees on the estate. In the autumn, the entire backyard became a mass of lollipop-yellow leaves, so bright they lit up the night like daylight. Birds nesting in the trees would get confused because they couldn’t tell what time of day it was, and they would stay awake for days until they dropped out of the branches with exhaustion.

She opened the front door silently, then clicked it shut behind her, knowing her parents would be watching CNN in the den. She would just tiptoe to the kitchen and out the French doors without them ever knowing.

She turned, and promptly fell over a suitcase.

She landed on her hands on the marble floor of the foyer, her palms stinging.

“What on earth was that?” Paxton heard her mother say. Then there was a rush of footsteps coming from the den.

Paxton sat up and saw that the contents of her tote bag had spilled out during her fall. All her lists were scattered around, which instantly made her panic. Her lists were private. She never let anyone see them. She quickly picked them up and stuffed them back into her bag, just as three people appeared in the foyer.

“Paxton! Are you all right?” her mother asked as Paxton stood and brushed herself off. “Colin, do something about these suitcases, for heaven’s sake.”

“I was going to take them to the pool house, but that was before I discovered Paxton had moved out there,” Colin said.

At the sound of her brother’s voice, Paxton spun to face him. She instantly ran into his arms. “You weren’t supposed to be here until Friday!” she said, squeezing him tightly, her eyes closed, breathing in that calm, easygoing air he always carried around him. She thought she might cry, she was so happy to see him. Then she was so mad she thought about hitting him. Dealing with her parents would be so much easier if he would just stop wandering around and come home for good.

“Things wrapped up sooner than I thought on my last project,” he said, pulling back and looking at her. “You look great, Pax. Move out and get married already.”

“No, don’t tell her to get married!” their mother, Sophia, said. “Do you know who she’s seeing right now? Sebastian Rogers.”

“I’m not seeing him, Mama. We’re just friends.”

“Sebastian Rogers,” Colin repeated as he looked at Paxton. “Didn’t we go to school with him? The effeminate kid in the purple trench coat?”

“Yes, that’s him,” their mother said, as if Colin had agreed with her about something.

Paxton felt her jaw tighten. “He doesn’t wear a purple trench coat anymore. He’s a dentist.”

Colin hesitated a few beats before changing the subject. “I guess I’ll put my suitcases in the guest suite upstairs, then.”

“Nonsense. You’ll put them in your old room. Everything’s just the way you left it,” Sophia said, then she grabbed her husband’s arm. “Donald, our babies are both here! Isn’t this wonderful? Get some champagne.”

He turned with a nod and left the foyer.

Over the years, Paxton’s father had slowly let his wife take over everything, to the point that now he mutely left all decisions up to her, and most of his time was spent at the golf course. As much as Paxton understood her mother’s drive, and how much easier it was to do things yourself than to let others do them, she often wondered why her mother didn’t resent her husband’s absence. Wasn’t that the whole point to being married? That you had a partner, someone you trusted, to help with important decisions?

“I can only stay for one drink,” Paxton said. “I’m sorry, Colin. I have a club meeting.”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry. We’ll catch up later. I need to go out for a while this evening, too.”

Sophia reached over and brushed some of the unruly hair off her son’s forehead. “Your first night here, and you’re going out?”

Colin grinned at her. “And you can no longer give me a curfew. Drives you crazy, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, you,” she said as she walked toward the kitchen, motioning for them to follow her with a flick of her perfectly manicured hand. Her tennis bracelet caught the light and sparkled, as if she were trying to hypnotize them into doing her bidding.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Paxton sighed and said, “Thank God you’re here. Will you please move back already?”

“I’m not through sowing my wild oats.” He shrugged his lanky shoulders. All her family was tall but, at six-five, Colin was by far the tallest. In high school, his friends used to call him Stick Man. His hair was darker than hers—which was a blond she kept meticulously highlighted—but they shared the same dark Osgood eyes.

“You still wear a suit to work,” she pointed out. “That’s not wild oats.”

He shrugged again.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’ve been up for two days straight. I need sleep. So what’s up with you and this Sebastian character?”

Paxton looked away and adjusted her tote bag on her shoulder. “We’re just friends. Mama doesn’t approve.”

“Does she ever? The Blue Ridge Madam looks fantastic, by the way. Better even than the photos you emailed me. I went up there late this afternoon. There are a few landscaping changes I need to make now that I’ve seen it in person, but otherwise it looks like everything is on track.”

“Are you sure it will be done before the gala next month?”

He reached out and squeezed her hand, and it almost made her cry again. “I promise.”

“Champagne!” their father called as he stomped up the basement steps. Colin and Paxton sighed in unison, then went to join their parents.

That night’s Women’s Society Club meeting was being held at Kirsty Lemon’s house, Lemon Tree Cottage. When Paxton got there that evening, Lemon Tree was decked out in all things lemon. The paper lanterns following the walkway to the front of the house had die-cut images of lemon wedges. The topiaries at the door had fake lemons on them. The door itself was covered in shiny yellow paper. Somehow, over the years, these meetings had become less about the actual charities they supported and more about trying to outdo one another in presentation.

Paxton went to the door and knocked. After drinks with her family, she had changed from her work clothes into a white dress and heels, then left at the same time as her brother. Their parents had actually waved to them from the driveway.

Kirsty opened the door. With her short brown hair and tiny hands, she was an optical-illusion woman, mysteriously making everyone around her seem larger than they really were. Paxton was five-ten and had at least eight inches and fifty pounds on Kirsty. She hated how she towered over her, but she never let it show, never stooped or wore flats around her. That would be shifting the balance of power. “Hi, Pax. Come in. You’re a little late.”

“I know. Sorry. Colin came home early. We were catching up,” she said as she entered and followed Kirsty to the living room. “How are you?”

Kirsty rambled on about her perfect husband and her lovably unruly boys and her fabulous part-time job as a real estate agent.

The twenty-four members sat in folding chairs set up in straight rows across the living room. Some had snack plates in their laps, full of scoops of lemon-chicken salad, lemon and broccoli mini-quiches, and tiny lemon meringue cups from the buffet table. There was a small table at the back of the room where three teenage girls, dressed in party clothes, whispered among themselves. They were called the Springs. These were the daughters of committee members being molded to take their mothers’ places when the time came. This was a young woman’s club. After a certain age, it was understood that you were no longer welcome, and that your daughter was expected to take your place. As a rule, rich Southern women did not like to be surpassed in either need or beauty. The exception was with their daughters. Daughters of the South were to their mothers what tributaries were to the main rivers they flowed into: their source of immovable strength.