(Rebecca's POV)
Lisa is the first person to stand when I walk in.
Not Joanna, who's sitting at the head of the table examining her nails. Not Ivy, who's pouring herself wine without looking up. Lisa — seventy-eight years old, bad hip, hands that shake — pushes herself out of her chair and crosses the room with her arms open.
"Rebecca, you're finally here."
She pulls me into a hug. She smells like rosemary and face powder and the lavender soap she's used for as long as I've known her. Her arms are thin but her grip is firm, and she holds on for three full seconds before she lets go.
"Let me look at you." She holds me at arm's length. Her eyes move over my face. "You're too thin. Are you eating enough?"
"I'm eating just fine, Lisa."
"I don't believe it. Sit down. The pot roast has you
