Eleven
AT 7 P.M. SHARP, HELEN and I are standing on the Applegates’ porch. We’re about to knock when the door opens and we’re greeted by a striking woman in her late fifties, tall and almost painfully thin, her short brown hair streaked with silver strands, with hazel eyes flecked with green. Her expression is open and welcoming, as if seeing us is the best thing to happen to her all day.
“Come on in,” she says with enthusiasm. “You must be Tom and Helen.”
“And you must be Vivian,” I say as we enter. I extend my hand, but she waves it off.
“Oh, Tom, don’t be so formal,” she says as she gives me a hug. “You shake Clark’s hand, not mine.”
“And Helen,” Vivian says, turning to her. Helen’s expression is guarded, uncertain.
Scared about what this woman, who is such a contrast to her, is g
