I open one eye, then the other. I squint at my best friend, Cynthia Crowley, who stands in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the back of her bedroom door. She fluffs the grayish-bluish-lavenderish skirt of her formal dress. She isn’t all wrong. If you’ve ever been to Maine, you’ve seen lupines. They’re the tall, spiky, green-leafed plants that kind of look like corn on the cob on top, but with flowers instead of kernels. They’re everywhere. Standing proud like soldiers in gardens, marching along the roadside, reproduced on tea towels, souvenir mugs, and postcards. Even T-shirts—though I don’t think any Mainers wear those, just tourists. Lupine flowers are all kinds of purple in real life. Translated into Cynthia’s gown, the color somehow ended up pretty fusty. But that’s what happens when the Ladies of the Lupine Festival League sew the dress themselves. I shut my eyes again and fling my arm over my face to block out the morning light streaming through the bay window.
