WAS I RIGHT? AREN’T YOU JUST LOVING YOUR house?” Joni Fletcher asked, fixing Myra Sullivan with a look of such utter triumph that Myra half wished she hadn’t agreed to have lunch with her sister. “I’m telling you,” Joni plunged on, “it was an absolute steal!” The dining room of the Roundtree Country Club had barely begun to fill, and Joni’s final word seemed to bounce off the walls, echoing through the room like a gunshot. Three women at the next table—women Myra had never seen before—turned to look at them, and Myra felt her face flush with embarrassment. She’d known it was a mistake to come here; she’d never felt comfortable with Joni’s country club friends. And it wasn’t just because she had nothing to wear, though she was honest enough to admit that her wardrobe—or the lack of it—was at least a factor. Nor was it the fact that she knew there was no chance at all that she and Marty would ever be members here. For Myra Sullivan, the biggest problem was the people who were members here.
