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with her mother-in-law, who seemed to know exactly where she was going. How far had Laurel explored this afternoon?
    Far enough, Annie realized, when she joined Laurel on their pier, to have a good sense of geography.
    “So
enclosed
. So self-contained,” Laurel observed, gesturing toward the homes that bordered the lagoon.
    Annie looked, too, with a vague sense of surprise. Actually, she’d never thought about it in that way because she and Max had been so enchanted by the sense of privacy and isolation engendered by pinewoods that separated each property—on both sides—from the next.
    But looking at the area from the pier did give a different perspective.
    Six homes were sited around the lagoon, each with back lawns that stretched to the water. The intervening pinewoods were so thick with undergrowth that the only access between the homes was provided by the blacktop path thatcircled the lagoon, cutting through the wooded swaths. Or, of course, by rowboat across the water. Each property was equipped with a pier.
    “Now, Annie dear, tell me all about our neighbors. I do so want to feel a part of this
lovely
little community. And as dear Saint John de Britto made clear, one must
immerse
oneself in the local culture.”
    Annie’s first instinct was to retort that the natives were not all that different from Laurel’s neighbors in Connecticut. She opened her mouth, closed it.
    Actually, they were damn different.
    Annie peered suspiciously at Laurel. Her mother-in-law was the most socially adroit person Annie had ever encountered. Why should she suddenly feel any need to prepare herself to meet anyone? But there was a ring of sincerity in Laurel’s voice. She seemed truly to want to know all about Annie and Max’s neighbors. Unfortunately, the light from the single yellow bulb at the end of the pier was not nearly bright enough for Annie to see Laurel clearly. She could see enough, however, to discern an oddly intent expression.
    Why?
    Annie riffled through their conversation, if that’s what it could be termed. Saint John de Britto. Brave man. Gone native.
    “That house, Annie. Who lives there?” Laurel pointed directly across the coal-dark water of the lagoon at a single light that marked a pier. Behind it, dimly visible in the moonlight, was the dark hulk of the Atwater house.
    Annie had the feeling—dammit, she was sure—that she was being manipulated. To what end? But what possible harm could it do to describe their neighbors? Was she getting a trifle paranoid in her dealings with her mother-in-law?
    Her answer was clipped. “Dorcas Atwater. A widow.”
    “A merry widow?” A silvery laugh floated in the night air.
    Annie desperately tried to sort swiftly through Laurel’s marital entanglements. But she’d never been good at logic problems, so she gave up trying to remember which of her mother-in-law’s marriages had ended in death and which indivorce. But it was such a telling phrase. Annie began to smile, until she thought of Dorcas Atwater
    “Unmerry as all hell, Laurel.”
    “Such a waste,” Laurel murmured. “Life is meant to be enjoyed. By everyone. As Saint Francis de Sales so aptly remarked, ‘A sad saint would be a sorry saint.’”
    Annie’s response was so immediate and so strong that it surprised her. She hadn’t realized what an impression Dorcas Atwater had made the last time she’d seen her. “Not sad. Mad. Mad as a scalded cat.”
    “How
interesting
. How unusual.”
    Once again Annie felt a quiver of surprise at her mother-in-law’s uncanny ability to go to the heart of the matter. Dorcas’s attitude
was
odd, and this had never before occurred to Annie.
    What was Dorcas mad about? Because her husband died? Surely that was a strange reaction.
    “Laurel, you’re right. That’s weird. And
she’s
weird. Dorcas used to be pretty, in an inbred sort of way. A pale face, bony like a horse, and light blue eyes. But stylish, always wearing the latest thing. Not anymore! I saw her