LITMIR.BIZ

      EVEN WHEN WE WERE LITTLE, I never spent much time at Budgie’s house. She never invited me. We were always outside, playing tennis or out on the water. What little time we spent indoors unraveled mainly in the kitchen of my house, or else upstairs in my bedroom, and then only when the summer rain became too drenching to ignore.

      When I marched up Neck Lane at noon, holding Kiki’s hand, I recognized Budgie’s house only because I knew it sat next to the Palmers’ place, about halfway along Seaview Neck. For years, I had been averting my eyes as I went by, as I would from a scar. I stood outside now and gazed down the narrow path, overgrown with tough seaworthy grass and weeds, to Budgie’s peeling front door. A pair of trucks had parked outside, L. H. Menzoes, General Contracting lettered on the doors; the air rang with invisible shouts and hammering from the interior. Every window and door had been thrown open to the salt breeze, and Budgie’s familiar voice carried above it all, issuing orders.

      The Greenwalds’ house, I reminded myself. It belonged to both of them now.

      Kiki tugged on my hand. “What are you waiting for, Lily?”

      “Nothing. Come along.” I led Kiki up the path and knocked on the half-open door. The hinge creaked beneath the strain.

      Budgie’s head appeared from a second-floor window. Her hair was bound up in an incongruous red polka-dot scarf. “Come on in! It’s open!” she called.

      Kiki stepped first into the foyer and wrinkled her nose. “It’s awfully musty in here.”

      “They haven’t lived in it for years,” I said.

      Budgie was bounding down the stairs, tearing off the scarf from her head. The hair beneath fell into perfect lacquer-smooth waves. “Years and years! We were ruined, you see, Koko—”

      “Kiki.”

      “Kiki. I’m so dreadfully sorry. We were ruined, all smashed up in the markets, and I don’t recommend it to anyone. Lemonade? Something stronger? Mrs. Ridge just got back from the market, and not a moment too soon.” Budgie turned and waved her hand at a door to the right. “That’s the living room, completely shot with mildew, they tell me. You remember the living room, don’t you, Lily?”

      “I don’t. I remember almost nothing. I don’t think I came in here more than once or twice.” I looked about me. The Byrne house was relatively imposing from the outside, three stories high, with large bay windows on the first floor and gables on the third. Inside, it had the feeling of a barn, and roughly the same dusty outdoorsy smell, except laced with salt instead of manure. The rooms were airy and spacious, the walls covered with chipped paint and peeling floral paper. To the left, a door stood ajar to reveal a dining room, its corner cupboards thick with dust and its chandelier hanging a good three feet too low.

      “Oh, look,” said Kiki, bending down at the side of the stairwell. “I think there’s a family of mice under here.”

      “I’ve ordered furniture,” said Budgie, “but it won’t arrive for another month or so, not until they’ve fixed things up. I’d like to take out a wall or two and all these wretched doors everywhere, all these crumbling old moldings, and paint everything bright and white. I want everything gone.” She gestured grandly with her arms, left and right, leading us toward the back of the house.

      “It sounds like a lot of work.” I tore at a cobweb in the corner of the foyer. Frayed and empty, as if even the spiders had abandoned the place.

      “They’re hiring an army of people to get it done quickly. I told them to spare no thought for expense. Nick and I are staying in the guest bedroom while they fix up ours. That’s first on the list, of course. I want a modern bathroom, I absolutely insist on it. Out we go, now. I thought we’d have lunch on the terrace. I’ve been watching the sailboats on Seaview Bay and feeling terribly nostalgic.”

      Budgie ushered us through a badly hung French door at the back of the house and onto the terrace, which was made of good New England bluestone and fully intact, despite the years of neglect; only a few tufts of weed and grass sprang between the cracks. The sun poured down unchecked, making the waters of Seaview Bay flash and glitter as if alive. A small sailboat stood off nearby, trying to catch a decent wind.

      “Lemonade, did you say?” Budgie strode across the granite to an idyllic arrangement of table and four chairs beneath a large green umbrella. A pitcher sat sweating on a tray, surrounded by tall glasses, along with a bottle of gin, a pack of Parliaments, and a slim gold lighter.

      “Do you have ginger ale?” asked Kiki.

      “She’ll have lemonade, thank you,” I said. “And so will I.”

      Budgie poured the lemonade, added a generous dollop of gin to her glass. She motioned the bottle inquisitively above mine. I nodded and held my thumb and forefinger a crack of sunlight apart, to which Budgie laughed and poured in a good inch. Mrs. Ridge brought in sandwiches on an old blue-and-white platter, chipped along one edge.

      Budgie took off her shoes, propped her feet on the empty chair, and nibbled at her sandwich. Her toes were fresh and pink, the nails painted a bright scarlet. She looked across the bay with distant eyes, as if she was trying to pick out details on the mainland.

      “So tell me about everyone, Lily,” she said. “The old gang.

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