Rating: ★★★★☆ Tags: Mystery Detective, General, Fiction

So
that’s 
how they do it in New
York
.
But the housewarming: The older women are
Maureen’s friends from long-ago PTA meetings, from book
clubs, from the Shoe-Be-Doo-Be at the mall, where she
spent forty hours a week slipping sensible block heels onto
women of a certain age. (She can size a foot on sight –
women’s 8, narrow! – it’s her go-to party trick.) All Mo’s
friends love Nick, and they all have stories about sweet

---

things Nick has done for them over the years.
The younger women, the women representing the pool
of possible Amy-friends, all sport the same bleached-blond
wedge haircut, the same slip-on mules. They are the
daughters of Maureen’s friends, and they all love Nick, and
they all have stories about sweet things Nick has done for
them over the years. Most of them are out of work from the
mall closings, or their husbands are out of work from the
mall closings, so they all offer me recipes for ‘cheap and
easy eats’ that usually involve a casserole made from
canned soup, butter, and a snack chip.
The men are nice and quiet and hunker in circles,
talking about sports and smiling benevolently toward me.
Everyone is nice. They are literally 
as nice as they can
be
. Maureen, the tristate’s hardiest cancer patient,
introduces me to all her friends the same way you’d show
off a slightly dangerous new pet: ‘This is Nick’s wife, Amy,
who was 
born and raised
in New York City.’ And her
friends, plump and welcoming, immediately suffer some
strange Tourettesian episode: They repeat the words –
New York City
! – with clasped hands and say something
that defies response: 
That must have been neat
. Or, in
reedy voices, they sing ‘
New York, New York
,’ rocking side
to side with tiny jazz hands. Maureen’s friend from the shoe
store, Barb, drawls ‘
Nue
York 
Ceety
! Get a rope,’ and
when I squint at her in confusion, she says, ‘Oh, it’s from
that old salsa commercial!’ and when I still fail to connect,
she blushes, puts a hand on my arm, and says, ‘I wouldn’t
really hang you.’
Ultimately, everyone trails off into giggles and
confesses they’ve never been to New York. Or that they’ve

---

been – once – and didn’t care for it much. Then I say
something like: 
You’d like it
or 
It’s definitely not for
everyone
or 
Mmm
, because I’ve run out of things to say.
‘Be friendly, Amy,’ Nick spits into my ear when we’re
refilling drinks in the kitchen (midwesterners love two liters
of soda, always two liters, and you pour them into big red
plastic Solo cups, always).
‘I 
am
,’ I whine. It really hurts my feelings, because if you
asked anyone in that room whether I’d been friendly, I know
they’d say yes.
Sometimes I feel like Nick has decided on a version of
me that doesn’t exist. Since we’ve moved here, I’ve done
girls’ nights out and charity walks, I’ve cooked casseroles
for his dad and helped sell tickets for raffles. I tapped the
last of my money to give to Nick and Go so they could buy
the bar they’ve always wanted, and I even put the check
inside a card shaped like a mug of beer – 
Cheers to You!
– and Nick just gave a flat begrudging thanks. I don’t know
what to do. I’m trying.
We deliver the soda pops, me smiling and laughing
even harder, a vision of grace and good cheer, asking
everyone if I can get them anything else, complimenting
women on ambrosia salads and crab dips and pickle
slices wrapped in cream cheese wrapped in salami.
Nick’s dad arrives with Go. They stand silently on the
doorstep, Midwest Gothic, Bill Dunne wiry and still
handsome, a tiny Band-Aid on his forehead, Go grim-
faced, her hair in barrettes, her eyes averted from her
father.
‘Nick,’ Bill Dunne says, shaking his hand, and he steps
inside, frowning at me. Go follows, grabs Nick, and pulls

---

him back behind the door, whispering, ‘I have no idea
where he is right now, headwise. Like if he’s having a bad
day or if he’s just being a jackass. No idea.’
‘Okay, okay. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him.’
Go shrugs pissily.
‘I’m serious, Go. Grab a beer and take a break. You
are relieved of Dad duty for the next hour.’
I think: