"Six years ago," she said, "Paige answered my ad for a roommate. The ad said *quiet, early riser, no pets.* Paige showed up with a cat she said was 'visiting' and asked me forty questions in the first ten minutes." Laughter. Paige buried her face in Ellis's shoulder. "The cat stayed. Paige stayed. And every day since, she has asked me how my day was. Every single day. Even when I didn't answer. Even when I said *fine* and went to bed at seven-thirty because I had to get up at three."
She looked at Paige.
"This spring, she and several people at this wedding plotted against me." More laughter, a little nervous. Avery saw Vivian, in the second row, go perfectly still. Saw Harlan, at the back by the grill, look down at his shoes. "I was very angry about it. I'm still a little angry about it. I jumped in that pool about it." She gestured. The yard roared. "But I've had four months to think, and here's where I've landed. There are people who love you and never show up. And there are people who show up so much it's almost too much. And it turns out I would rather be plotted *for* than ignored." She lifted her glass. "Paige. Ellis. Thank you for aiming in my direction. To the two of you. And to everybody here who's still learning to say what they mean."
*To Paige and Ellis.*
Much later, the band packed up and the caterers stacked chairs and the guests drifted out through the side gate in twos and threes, carrying their shoes and their leftover cake. Harlan walked Vivian to the edge of the patio, and they stood together, not touching, talking quietly. Avery saw him say something and saw Vivian laugh — a short, surprised laugh — and then saw her rest her hand on his arm for one second before she let go. Not forgiven. Not yet. But a Sunday closer.
Then Harlan went inside, and Avery found Vivian alone at the edge of the deep end, looking down at the floating white roses.
"Hi," Avery said.
Vivian turned. She didn't beam. She had stopped beaming at Avery sometime around August and had started doing something better, which was smiling like she was glad and would be fine either way. Over the summer there had been a great deal of rye. There had been one awkward Sunday dinner at which Vivian served lemon chicken — Avery's favorite, which she'd learned by asking Paige rather than Avery — and Avery had had to go stand in the bathroom for a minute. There had been a phone call in September, when Gerald the starter finally, gloriously survived a full month, and Avery had called Vivian before she called anyone else and then sat stunned at what she'd done.
"That was a beautiful toast," Vivian said.
"I stole the ending from you."
"I noticed. I was flattered."
They stood looking at the water. The string lights lay across it in long, wavering lines.
"Can I tell you something embarrassing?" Vivian said.
"You've earned one."
"I've lived next door to this pool for twenty-two years. Bev used to beg me to come swim. I never did. I always said I didn't have the right suit, or I'd just had my hair done, or I'd come next weekend." She looked down at her dark dress, her low heels. "And then in June a girl ran past me and jumped in with her clothes on, and I sat on the edge with my feet in, and I've been thinking ever since that I'd like to know what it felt like. Just once. Before I'm seventy."
Avery looked at her. At the short grey hair and the pearl earrings and the very straight back. At a woman who had waited forty minutes alone at a table and eleven home visits on a sofa and four months for an apology, and who was still, apparently, waiting for this.
"You're wearing a dress," Avery said.
Vivian's eyes met hers. Something lit in them.
"Exactly," she said.