The servants had risen early to prepare for the family's well-deserved day of inactivity, erecting a croquet set and a badminton net that would never be touched, removing the canvas cover from a wooden motorboat that would never be untied from the dock. Once a servant courageously pointed out to Mrs. Lauterbach the folly of this daily ritual. Mrs. Lauterbach had snapped at him, and the practice was never again questioned. The toys were raised each and every morning, only to stand with the sadness of Christmas decorations in May until they were ceremoniously removed at sundown and put away for the night.

The bottom floor of the house sprawled along the water from sunroom to sitting room, to dining room, and finally to the Florida room, though none of the other Lauterbachs understood why Dorothy insisted on calling it a Florida room when the summer sun on the North Shore could be just as warm.

The house had been purchased thirty years earlier when the young Lauterbachs assumed they would produce a small army of offspring. Instead they had just two daughters who didn't care much for each other's company-Margaret, a beautiful and immensely popular socialite, and Jane. And so the house became a peaceful place of warm sunshine and soft colors, where most of the noise was made by white curtains snapping in watery breezes and Dorothy Lauterbach's restless pursuit of perfection in all things.

On that morning-the morning after the Lauterbachs' final party-the curtains hung still and straight in the open windows, waiting for a breeze that would never come. The sun blazed and a shimmering haze hung over the bay. The air was itchy and thick.

Upstairs in her bedroom, Margaret Lauterbach Jordan pulled off her nightgown and sat in front of her dressing table. She quickly brushed her hair. It was ash blond, streaked by the sun and unfashionably short. But it was comfortable and easy to manage. Besides, she liked the way it framed her face and showed off the long graceful line of her neck.