I’m concerned about the fallout for our kids. If there’s going to be sides drawn, I’m not sure we should be taking Lucy’s—”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous.” My voice trembles, and I find myself clenching my hands. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be rejected by everyone. I do. I have. And I won’t allow that for my children. “I’m protecting our girls.”

“You’re overprotective, Taylor.”

“The house isn’t even clean—”

“It’s spotless. It’s always spotless.”

“There are dishes in the sink and toys scattered on the lawn.”

“I guarantee Lucy and the kids won’t notice.” His tone softens. “Taylor, honey, they need us. Look at them.”

Reluctantly, I glance past him to where Lucy is corralling her kids, her arms wrapped around the shoulders of her twins, her head bent as she talks to them. She seems to be having quite the heart-to-heart with them. She’s always been a good mom. It would be tragic if she lost the kids.

“Fine . . .” I sigh. “We’ll all have dinner.”

The Points Country Club is only a mile or so from our home in the tiny town of Yarrow Point. Yarrow Point is just that, too, a point of land that juts into Lake Washington with loads of low waterfront footage. You pay to be on the water, though. I honestly don’t think you can get a house on the water for less than four million right now. I could be wrong, but I think even that price is low.

After taking a left off 92nd Avenue NE, I turn down our small lane that dead-ends in front of our house, a big sprawling shingle house highlighted by glossy white paint, true divided light windows, a steep shingled roof, and long-columned covered porches.

Every time I pull up, I feel a stab of pride and possession. I love my house. I helped create this house. I was part of the design process—indeed, much of the design was my ideas and my pictures and drawings. During the eighteen months it took to build the house, I was on the job site nearly every day, checking on the progress, talking to the contractor, discussing details with the head carpenter. I loved every aspect of building the house, from the muddy lot in the Seattle December rain, to the immense framing stage, to walking through the space with the electrician, placing each of the outlets.

I was there when they poured the concrete and there the morning the drywalling began and again for the finish painting. It’s hard not to fall in love with a house when it’s not just a house but a part of you.

But it’s not just the house I love. Everything is magical here—the garden and rose-covered trellises, the huge lawn that rolls right to the water with the sandy beach, private dock, and darling boathouse.

As I turn off the engine, the girls fling open their car doors and spill out in a flurry of terrycloth towels and bright sundresses, their sandals falling out and slapping the ground.

“Take everything to the laundry room,” I tell the girls as I dash inside. “Don’t leave one towel in the car. Everything goes in the laundry basket.”

While the girls strip off their wet suits in the laundry room—a room that Patti once said was bigger than most people’s living rooms—I get the miscellaneous dishes from the sink into the dishwasher, the white Carrara marble counters wiped off, and some of the pink roses from the garden in a vase of water before Lucy and her children arrive.

“How gorgeous,” Lucy says, spotting my arrangement of lush roses on the counter. Keys still clutched in her palm, she bends to sniff them.