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believed her. Fights were nipped in the bud before they began, guilty silences always led to a shout: “What’s going on in there?” Even Will was impressed by how quickly Carol could burrow to the heart of a lie. But all of those things come with mothering’s territory, if you just pay attention. The only thing Carol considers unusual is her talent for predicting disaster.
    So this morning, when anxiety struck, she lay very still and looked at the ceiling until the image came to her: the doves. It wasn’t clear what had happened to them, but something was wrong. Immediately, her brain raced through scenarios: poisoned feed, lethal stray wires, foxes burrowing into the garage. She stood up and threw on a robe, trying not to wake Will. He lifted his head as she moved toward the hall.
    “What’s up?”
    “Nothing. I’m just checking on those doves.” She slipped out before he could say more.
    Her heart pounded as she pattered down the staircase and to the door. The garage was gloomy and still. She moved toward the cage and heard a rustle of distress at her approach. She could see two soft gray lumps in the dim light, but she couldn’t tell if anything was wrong. She went back and turned on the light. There was a small cooing sound, as if the birds recognized the light as a sign to wake up. Returning, she stared at them. They were both hunkered down, feathers fluffed around them like quilts. They regarded her steadily with beadlike black eyes. She willed them to get up and walk around, do something to prove their well-being, but they didn’t move. Finally, she unhitched the cage door and stuck a hand in, fluttering it clumsily toward them. They both rustled to their feet, eyes fixed on the hand, and scuttled back. Perfectly fine. When she pulled her hand out, they looked at her with obvious reproach.
    Now, finished vacuuming the living room, she is tempted to check on them again, but she has gone into the garage four times already this morning, and if Will comes in from the mailbox andfinds her there again, she’ll never hear the end of it. She decides to focus on the problem of Doug.
    Already she can hear her own voice, defensive but unconvincing. She can imagine the look of absolute horror Margaret will give her when she finds out what Carol did. Margaret has always been good at killer expressions.
    He seemed so genuinely pleased for Leanne, Carol hears herself saying. It just slipped out before I thought about it. It’s all true. She considers adding how nice he looked, there in Harding’s, his cart full of frozen dinners and granola bars and instant vitamin shakes. Shopping for his mother, he explained. Mrs. Johannsen had a hard time getting around these days. Doug’s devotion to his mother was widely accepted in town as the reason he had never married, and he had smiled such a fond smile when he spoke of her that Carol’s heart melted. The fact that he was a pig farmer’s son who had dated Margaret slipped her mind, and all she saw was a fine young man—nice broad shoulders, too—who remained, in his thirties, an attentive and loving son.
    No, strike that. Margaret would be angry at her for singing Doug’s praises in front of David. In fact, Carol has no idea whether David even knows about Doug. Presumably, a woman who teaches history at one of the nation’s very best universities— She could be teaching in the Ivy League, Carol always tells people, but she wanted to stay close to home —doesn’t go around bragging about the Future Farmers of America she dated in high school. Carol makes a mental note to herself to speak only of “your old friend Doug.”
    There’s even some hope that Margaret’s reticence to admit her connection to Doug might save Carol from her daughter’s scorn. After all, who could possibly get upset about her mother inviting a childhood friend to her sister’s pre-wedding cocktail party? In fact—and here Carol recognizes the flash of maternal insight that is the only