Chapter SevenTwenty-Seven Merrie Lane, around the corner from a golf course in the leafy heart of Dennis, looked much as Lydia expected. She pulled into the asphalt driveway. To boldly go, she thought, where no Morris has gone before. The Ropeses’ Ford sedan—a gleam of chrome, a whiff of Turtle Wax—filled half of a two-car garage. This was linked by a breezeway to a small split-level house with pale green siding, a scalloped aluminum storm door, and a white shingled roof. A red wooden bird on a stick whirred pinwheel wings beside the front walk.
On the phone yesterday Mrs. Ropes was shyly charming. How nice to hear from someone who knew DeAnne. Yes, terrible news, just terrible. The family was still in shock. As her friend—Lydia, was it?—must be, too, if she’d only just found out.
They a
