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college and started her own home business, Baskets by Monica. At first she’d just held classes in basketmaking in the room over their garage, teaching the ladies of Hickory Dell—Gert Gorin, Heather Pierce, Millie Manning—how to weave and cut and the difference between wicker and twine. But as word spread among the ladies of Sayer’s Brook—most of whom didn’t work outside the home—one class had led to two and then three and four. Over the last six years, Monica had expanded the business so far that she now had assistants teaching classes in Greenwich and Stamford, and Baskets by Monica® were now sold in shops throughout Connecticut and spreading nationwide—not to mention their catalog sales. In the latest sign of her success, Monica had just gotten a mention in Better Homes and Gardens magazine. Homemakers who knew what was “in” would never think of decorating their houses without a few Baskets by Monica®—New England swamp ash or Southwestern limberbush—strategically placed for all to see,
    Knocking back the last of her wine, Monica dreaded the question that the ladies of her basket classes were sure to ask this coming week: “Who’s that living in your mother’s old house? That isn’t your sister , is it?”
    Monica had thought Jessie was safely hidden away in New York. She still remembered the day she had driven Jessie and Abby into the city, five years ago now, setting them up in their apartment—all paid for by Todd, of course, and Jessie had yet to pay them one thin dime of it back. Monica had thought that Jessie, with her bohemian ways, would have made Manhattan her home. But something had happened to Jessie in that apartment. Monica remembered the sobbing telephone call she’d gotten the morning after her sister’s first night in the city. She’d been blubbering about her miscarriage, about the baby she’d lost. Monica had had no patience and no sympathy. Jessie might have lost one of the babies she’d been carrying, but she’d delivered Abby, hadn’t she? She’d given birth to a fine and healthy girl. Meanwhile, ever since her marriage to Todd seven years earlier, Monica had been trying without success to get pregnant. She didn’t envy Jessie much—why should she, given her sister’s miserable life?—but she did envy her Abby.
    â€œHow is she getting here from the city, by the way?” Aunt Paulette asked, shaking Monica out of her reverie.
    â€œTodd had one of the drivers from the office bring her up in a company car,” Monica replied, pouring herself a little more wine—not much, just a splash.
    â€œWell, she should be here soon, shouldn’t she?”
    Monica glanced at her phone sitting on the counter. She had three text messages. She typed in her pass code and read them. They were all from Jessie. One had come in an hour ago, telling her they were leaving the city. Another had come a half hour later, reporting that they were stuck in traffic. The last text had come fifteen minutes after that, letting Monica know that the traffic had dissipated and they were moving again.
    â€œYes,” Monica told her aunt. “I’d say she should be here any minute now.”
    And she filled her wineglass right up to the top.
    If Monica was honest with herself, and sometimes, when she drank enough wine, she could be, she’d admit that she didn’t only envy her sister for having produced a living, breathing, healthy child. She also envied her for something else—something far less tangible. She envied her for her “joie de vivre”—or at least, the exuberance for life she had shown before Emil. Jessie was always the prettier, the more outgoing of the two sisters in high school. She’d been Mom’s favorite, too—at least, Monica had felt she was. The two of them had always been laughing and carrying on, taking off on hikes or bike rides