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don’t you, Mister Bad?”
    “With a little help,” I say.
    “Hell, that’s what humans are for, aren’t they? Helping each other?” She touches her hand to her heart and bows slightly. I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or sincere. Being raised by hippies makes me a little gullible at times. “And I thank you. I really, truly thank you. Now, can I use your can?”
    I step aside and she beelines for the bathroom. As she comes out, she does up her fly and checks out the living room. “Nice place.”
    “It’s my sister’s.”
    “Yeah?” She picks up a hunk of metalJoy calls art. “Let me guess. Late twenties, wishes she was living in Manhattan. Probably a little...” She puts a finger to her nose and sniffs.
    “Bang on.”
    “Can spot ’em a mile away.” She sets the sculpture down. “I’m Nat, by the way.”
    “Hope.”
    “I cleaned my hands. Or they’re a little better anyway. See?” She holds them up for inspection before we shake. “Well, thanks again, Hope.”
    Her grip is firm and warm and she holds onto my hand for almost as long as Maira did on the plane. Maybe it’s a Brooklyn thing. She’s kind of gazing at me, in a weird way. Another weird thing—a really weird thing—is that I don’t want her to let go.
    “So, Hope.” She lets go. “See you around?”
    I nod, not sure what to say. She whistles for Clocker, who’s curled up on Joy’s very expensive chaise lounge, and they leave. I shake my head at Daisy, who’s whining at the door, already missing her new buddy.
    “What was that?” I ask, completely bewildered. Daisy lies down, nose touching the door, and whines. “Just exactly what was that ?”

Chapter Five
    Today is day six of my job at the vet’s, and I haven’t seen Nat since. I’ve been walking the dogs first thing each morning, and then again in the evenings, and keeping an eye out for her the whole time, although I’m not sure why. Thomas, the vet, is really easy to work for, thank the Universe for that. He’s mellow and reminds me of Dad a little, except he hasopera blaring all day, and Dad would play folk music, or jazz, but definitely not opera. This is also day six of Joy’s slavery schedule of housework and errands I have to do to pay off the broken glass thingy. I’m in the middle of alphabetizing her bookshelf when Maira calls.
    “I need you!” She says, frantic. “My nanny just quit! Come for supper tomorrow night?”
    She offers me a nannying job, which is fantastic, but even if she hadn’t, I’ve been so lonely I’d go just for the company. She needs me for four days a week, she explains, while she goes to her job as an editor at a publisher in Manhattan. So tomorrow I’ll get to meet the guy she’d been so upset about on the plane.
    Maira’s address is a brownstone on Garfield, just below the park and the trendy shops. There’s a tiny, neat, lush garden out front, and flowers spilling out of pots lining the steps, leading to a red front door and an antique doorbell. From what I can see from the skinny window beside the door, Mairais rich, rich, rich. There’s just no other word for it. Or her husband is. Or they both are. Classy furniture, walls of books, tasteful art and just a glimpse of a kitchen that looks like it sprang fully formed from the loins of the How Cool People Live Guidebook .
    Maira comes to the door, a twin on each hip. She manages to unlock and open the door in a way only a mother of infant twins could.
    “Am I ever glad to see you.” She offers me one. “Felix,” she says, just as I was going to guess he was Avery. “Come on in, I’ll give you a tour.”
    It takes less than a minute before I decide that when I have a home of my own, I want it to be just like hers. Never mind the higgledy-piggledy, homemade, wood-smoke, comforting jumble of Larchberry Farm. I vote for this—smart and artful and eclectic and interesting and tidy, but still really lived-in and human and warm. She shows me the kitchen last. We