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forcing a smile. “Then . . . you’re still just a
girl
!”

CHAPTER THREE

    North Shore, Illinois
    Last Wednesday
    “Hi, sweetie! Come in, come in! Oh, my goodness, look at you!
Très
chic! Is that a St. John top I spot?”
    As I open the door for Ashley, the warmth of the June day wafts in behind her. The air outside smells like freshly mown grass and the neighborhood’s alive with the buzz of dozens of leaf blowers. As of the first sign of spring each year, there’s never a moment from dawn until dusk that the air doesn’t reverberate with the sounds of all the lawns in North Shore being professionally clipped. Some days it’s noisier up here than it ever was when I lived in the city. Thank heavens for triple-paned windows!
    I lean in to peck Ashley on both cheeks, my lips never actually grazing her skin. How can Dr. K say that watching the
Real Housewives
is worthless? Those gals taught me air kisses are
so
much more cultured than a hug or handshake.
    Ashley’s practically unrecognizable from when we met last fall. Her now lowlighted golden-brown hair, lightly flecked with her apparently natural buttery streaks, is pinned up in a side-swept bun, an almost exact replica of Cate Blanchett’s style at the premiere of
The
Monuments Men
. Gone are the tacky ankle booties, replaced with a simple (but divine) pair of heeled Chanel spectator oxfords. I imagine the numbers on Barry’s AMEX have worn clean off at this point.
    “Natch!” Ashley squeals and gives me a little spin. “The whole dealie’s from their new resort collection!”
    I could not be more proud of successfully remaking Ashley in my own image. My sister Kelly was right when she told me it’s easier to build people up than tear them down.
    Well, that’s more of the
spirit
of what she said. Kelly’s exact quote was “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Since Ashley was predisposed to disliking everyone I dislike, particularly after her snafu with Brooke Birchbaum at the fall swim meet, I felt like she should be on my team.
    Ergo, makeover.
    Ashley seems like an entirely different person from the one I met tottering around on Bambi legs in hooker shoes, delivering highly inappropriate snacks last September. Now she’s tasteful, tailored, and can hide six kinds of veggies in her turkey meatballs. You’re welcome, Goldman family!
    And yet . . . at some point over the spring, she managed to somehow
surpass
my image. I mean, St. John? Really? Who can afford St. John in this economy? When did she stop buying Ann Taylor Loft? I find this turn of events distressing. If Ashley were to put her ideas for a trophy-wife-turned-snack-mom lifestyle Web site into action, I might not be able to handle the competition.
    So there’s no misunderstanding, we don’t
need
a Kitty Carricoe, Version 2.0.
    Version 1.0 is doing quite nicely, thank you.
    Ashley and I cross through the cathedral-ceilinged, transom-windowed, blue slate-floored foyer, past the round maple pedestal table holding an etched crystal pitcher, which brims with my trademark fresh-cut Stargazer lilies and pink and green Pistachio hydrangeas.
    “Your arrangement is
to die
!” Ashley exclaims.
    “Six hundred and twenty-one Facebook users would agree,” I reply. Kelly always says it’s not bragging if it’s true.
    I really did hope to surpass one thousand “Likes,” though, and not having reached that number made me anxious. Should I have taken the photo on a sunnier day? Or used a different filter? More “Walden” and less “Amaro”? Do I need to obscure the stems by wrapping a banana leaf around them? Or are my trademark blooms beginning to lose their appeal? Shall I shake things up a bit? Go more kitschy and approachable and display my blossoms in a painted Ball jar instead? Do I mix in some tulips next time?
    Or is it just that I’m slipping in popularity?
    Please, God, tell me I’m not slipping. That’s the last thing I need.
    Ashley asks, “Where do you find the