Eugene Manetta. His address turned out to be part of a spiffy ring of deluxe condominiums that wound around a pond decorated with little footbridges and statuary, all of which were lit up with fancy landscape lighting. A young couple played tennis, the court as bright as daylight from the spotlights focused on it. Elsewhere people strolled along the walking paths and sat out at café tables on back patios, drinking and talking. Singles heaven, was what the place appeared to be, with its parking lot full of shiny new cars, its recreational facilities hopping. Stella found Topher’s building and parked in the guest spot, nearly opening her door into a young woman who was jogging by with earbuds in her ears. According to Chrissy’s research, Topher was forty-eight, which struck her as a little old for all this vigorous singles-set fun, but what did she know? Moments after she knocked on his ground-floor door, it was answered by a medium-tall man with short dark brown hair surrounding a perfectly round bald patch.
