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“I never noticed,” Ginger says stiffly. The sweet aftermath of sex curdles in her belly. Why should she be surprised that Eddie admires Paisley’s teeth? He’s been studying Paisley every day since she and Mason moved to Lindenwood Court nine years ago when Brynne was still their only child. Even before that, when the Lamms lived down the hill on Dogwood Terrace, Eddie liked being near Paisley every chance he got. By now he’s memorized the length of her legs, the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the sweep of her dark eyelashes that sometimes cast a shadow on her cheek. Ginger has memorized these features herself. If the value of a woman is her looks, Paisley is worth more than Ginger. It’s that simple.

Ginger fears she might be secretly relieved that, if Paisley is out of the picture, she won’t have to be jealous anymore. Can she really be this petty?

But there’s this, too: that in one small, perfect paragraph, spoken at the perfect time, Paisley set the two of them to rights about their careers. She has Paisley to thank for that. She won’t forget it.

“What are you thinking about?” Eddie asks.

“Nothing. Well . . . Paisley being sick. Same thing you’re thinking about.”

He doesn’t deny it. Should Ginger care? Eddie isn’t going to run off with Paisley or vice versa. If that had been the plan, they would have done it years ago. For all of Paisley’s appeal—the charm and charisma that captivated Ginger as much as it did Eddie—for all of that, Paisley has always seemed devoted to Mason and their daughters, just as Eddie has been devoted to Ginger and Rachel and Max. Paisley likes other men only so much; she doesn’t want them except in the most superficial way. Look at me. I’ll be nice to you. I’ll listen to what you say. Don’t touch, though. Ah—don’t touch. The fact that Eddie is aware of Paisley’s teeth—they aren’t talking about breasts or private parts here—shouldn’t mean a thing.

But it does. Over the years, there have been times when Ginger knew Eddie was not only watching Paisley but found her exciting—the way he followed her with his eyes, wanting her, perhaps fantasizing about her. Or did Ginger read more into it than there was? It hadn’t mattered. It was exciting to know he’d be going home with Ginger, wanting Ginger, making love to Ginger, staying with Ginger—and if it was Paisley he thought about when his eyes were closed, all the better. Ginger was Paisley then. A silky fire snaked through her belly when she came. How can she explain that now, even to herself? There was something powerful about it. Paisley was Ginger’s fantasy, too.

But not tonight. Not this weekend. Not with Paisley sick. If Eddie is thinking about Paisley now, that’s not a matter of simple lust; it’s something else entirely. For Ginger, the glittery evening turns to ash. All she wants to do is sleep.

The next morning, they don’t make love when they wake up, though Eddie is more than willing. “Too late,” Ginger tells him, pointing to the clock. “I promised I’d stop in at that water-purity seminar.” She doesn’t, though. She speaks to a few of the salespeople she knows and spends the rest of her time on the exhibition floor. Wandering the aisles under the too-bright fluorescent lights, she studies the specs for the new spas in the displays and takes notes on the latest innovations. Without intending to, she also makes entries into the mental journal she keeps but never writes down. All right, she tells herself, here is what you feel when your neighbor is sick, who has lived across from you for years yet has always been an acquaintance, not really a friend, because your husband is more interested in her than you’d like him to be.

You feel like a traitor.

You feel two-faced because you like her quite a bit, even though you wouldn’t mind being rid of her. She’s always been nice to you. She’s always been fun. You don’t want her to get cancer. You just want her to gain fifty pounds or acquire a disfiguring scar on her face.

You feel helpless. This is the thing Ginger