The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [0]
Ellyn Bache
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
A+ Author Insights, Extras, & More . . .
Dear Reader
Questions for Discussion
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Ellyn Bache
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
October 14
On this warm October night, if you turned into Brightwood Trace beside the handsome brick entryway, and followed the graceful curve of Brightwood Circle past the three culs-de-sac that branch off like fingers, you’d notice even through the gathering fog that a white bow with long streamers, one that might look good atop a large wedding present, has been secured to a tree in front of every house. Every house. This is not because of hostages in some foreign country or a deeply felt political cause. The residents put them up to support one of their own. Paisley Lamm lives at the top of Lindenwood Court, the highest point in the development, and has to pass this way on every trip in or out.
No one is sure who tied the first ribbon to a tree this afternoon. Most people think it was Andrea Chess, Paisley’s longtime friend, who knows her better than anyone in Brightwood Trace except Paisley’s husband, Mason. Andrea is the one with the mushroom-colored hair falling in a bowl around her face, and those odd gray-green eyes that seem somehow colorless, like slightly dirty water. You wouldn’t imagine Andrea as Paisley’s best friend, but she is. For twelve years they’ve shared secrets, seen each other through every crisis, given each other space. In Andrea’s view, this has led to a special, dignified friendship few women ever enjoy. Andrea loves Paisley like a sister.
Most of the neighbors are much more ambivalent. Paisley is pleasant to everyone, so affable and good natured the women find it hard to stay jealous even after their husbands stare longingly at her at a party and it ruins their night. They burn hot for a day or two, incensed that a woman of forty-six should look so good. It’s unnatural. Then on Monday or Tuesday they run into Paisley at the supermarket or in the gym, where she offers a tomboyish wave and spills benevolence onto them from her snappy blue eyes. “Hey,” she trills, and “Hey,” they call back, and at that moment their ill will vanishes like smoke. There’s something irresistible about Paisley. There’s something that makes her seem the gracious hostess even in the grocery store. The next time Paisley issues an invitation for coffee or wine, the neighbor will say, yes, of course, and forget until it’s too late the way her husband looked at Paisley that time and probably will again.
Of course, Iona Feld doesn’t feel this way. At sixty, Iona is practically old enough to be Paisley’s mother—maybe not quite—and hasn’t been much interested in men since her husband died. The only man in her life now is her grown stepson, who is trouble enough. Iona isn’t jealous of Paisley, and she knows too much to be an ardent admirer, but she enjoys her all the same. At Paisley and Mason’s many social gatherings, she watches with wry amusement the way Paisley works a room. The more aware Paisley is of men eyeing her, the more conscientious she is about distributing her charms with judicious fairness, a little for John, a little for Eddie, some for the women, too. It’s almost an art form. Iona is sure Paisley’s parents impressed on her that it was important to be nice to everyone. She sees Paisley teaching this same lesson to her two daughters. The younger girl, Melody, isn’t much interested yet, but Brynne, at fourteen, already exhibits more social savvy than some women ever acquire.
This morning, Iona fought alarm, irritation, and an actual lump in her throat while driving to A. C. Moore to buy the biggest white bow she could find. Afterward, she didn