Lindsay, come on, we’re going to be late!” Haley pounds on my front door like there’s a fire. Haley does most things in life like there’s a fire these days. I’m certain it has something to do with her chocolate frosting fetish, but I have no proof. While I slide my last earring in, I unlatch the door and let it creep open.

“Calm down. Everyone here is eighty; do you want to wake the devil?”

“It’s nine-thirty.” She rolls her eyes, acting more like—well, more like me than her. “His minions are already up, eating their cat chow or chicken livers or whatever disgusting things that smell up your open-air hallways. This place reminds me of the lion house at the San Francisco Zoo! It’s a vegan’s nightmare.”

“All right. Must you be so dramatic? Get in here.” I grab her by the arm and pull her inside.

“It’s not like I’ll wake them, you know.” She drops her purse on the entry table. “It’s daylight. Everyone’s going to bed, probably closing the top on their caskets as we speak.” Haley takes her sweater and drapes it across her face like Dracula.

After living here for a year and a half, Haley doesn’t have a lot of heart for my neighbors. I can’t say I blame her. The old women (former actresses, most of them) are the very definition of curmudgeon, as if life has done nothing but kick them and all they can do now is kick back.

Personally, I admire them. It must be absolutely freeing to say and do as you please. And at the expense of their good name, they live the lives they want. Granted, it’s a little lonely for my taste, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see the value in it.

I step out of the foyer to pick up a newspaper. I notice a few eyes peering at me from behind slit curtains: The only sign of life in this place, other than the nine million cats, is the sliding window coverings. It’s like there’s always an imaginary puppet show and I’m the star.

I slam the door, shuddering as I do so. “Maury must be on commercial. I’m obviously the only entertainment.”

“Look at it this way. It’s like having your own security firm. As long as they can still dial 911, you’re safe.”

“No, it’s like living in a costume shop. The blinking red eyes follow me everywhere…when my back is turned, I know their eyes follow me…And just when I get that cold, prickly feeling on the back of my neck, one of those blasted cats will rub up against my leg and scare the life out of me!”

Haley laughs. “Now who is being dramatic? They have a sixth sense. Instead of dead people, cats see cat-hating people. Your hatred of them is like a call of affection. Sort of like a signal to that special guy you do not want to date. Maybe you should try to pet one.”

It’s eerie living here since Ron died. I suppose part of it is my own Tell-Tale Heart, throbbing with guilt. Maybe that’s why I’m so aware of the neighbors. Chances are they’ve done some regrettable things in their long lives, but it doesn’t seem to bother them. But I’d love to know the actual odds. What are the chances that these guiltless women would all move here? Or that I’d be in their midst? My unfortunate providence knows no bounds. If indeed it is providence, and not divine penance. They say what goes around, comes around—and it certainly doesn’t leave.

“No, thank you. Who knows where those cats have been?”

“You’re just spending too much time here, and your life is paralleling theirs a tad too closely, which would be fine if you were fifty years older.”

“You cannot really think that.” I stop applying lipgloss and look at her. “My life isn’t like theirs. I’m not that pathetic. Not yet.”

She bites her bottom lip and shrugs.

“Haley, no.” I beg of her to tell me something different. “Come on—these women are like one of those sad faces you see in the depression ads. You don’t really think I’m like them. I’m young. My hair is still blonde. Well, it would be if it were really blonde. I’m happy, see?” I give her a broad grin.

“Their faces are still beautiful, too. They may not talk to us, but they clearly communicate well with their plastic surgeon. Back in the day, they probably only had to talk to their colorist, too.”

“My life is not like theirs.”

“It’s not. You have your whole life in front of you. More places to see, people to meet. So what does that mean to you? What’s next?” She starts tapping her toe, and it’s as though I can hear the Jeopardy! music.

“I’ve been busy, Haley.” I roll my eyes. “I did lose my husband. One doesn’t just move on like you’ve lost a favorite sweater.”

“Of course they don’t, but I’ve always thought of you as a person who really experienced life. I’m the one who was content to watch it play out on TV. But you…well, you sulk all the time now. They sulk all the time. It’s this great mass of sulking energy you feel whenever you enter this place. I suddenly have the urge to nap. It’s depressing.”

As is my life. “I don’t sulk! And you’re feeling cat energy, not mine. It wasn’t depressing when you lived here.”

“That’s because you weren’t depressing. You were always the life of the party. The person who stirred people up into some great debate. Where is that, Lindsay? At some point, you have to come back to us.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that to me, Haley. I know he’s gone. They say not to make any important changes for a year.”

“And we’re past that mark.”

I search my mind to think of something to justify why I need more time but nothing comes. I’ve turned into a slug, and my friends know it. Which bothers me more than actually being a slug—that people know it. “Why can’t you let me take my time? People react to circumstances differently. I shouldn’t be faulted for listening to the experts.”

“You’re not reacting. You’re not doing anything. You’ve become like a murky fish tank and you, the lone fish, are presently floating at the top. It’s time for some action!”

“That’s not true. I’m…I’m waiting for the California real estate market to turn around.”

I live in Bel Air! An address doesn’t get much more high-end than that. A virtual real estate mogul I thought I’d become, buying and remodeling this place while new neighbors did the same—except the old neighbors never actually moved or died, which I suppose was a necessary and diabolical part of my plan. The only turnover going on is down the street at the local bakery. The rest of the units look like Mrs. Roper could appear at any moment. With her cat.

“Then what? Will you remodel another condo in here, the morgue? That’s your plan?”

“It’s not all bad here. There’s the garden,” I say with realtor enthusiasm. The center courtyard has a myriad of greenery that’s almost tropical in its feel. With a small waterfall splashing gently into a man-made river, it would seem like heaven, were it not for the slow stalking of birds by an abundant feline population.

Haley raises her brows. “Are you forgetting the headless birds?”

“All right. Maybe it is all bad.” But work with me here. While Haley plans the wedding of the century to the man she adores, I spend my days trying to prove that my husband is truly dead. Haley’s best friend is tall, dark, and handsome, and mine has an official death certificate.

“You just have to focus on what’s right in your life again. You’ve got the Trophy Wives Club, church, me, money to travel with and any number of opportunities. I just think you need some direction.”

Can you give me one? My eyes plead. I look around the room. “I just need more time. After selling Ron’s business, I wasn’t exactly ready to start one up right away. Are you telling me to get another job in the meantime?”

Haley sighs. “This is pointless. You’re like the friend who is going to start her diet on Monday.”

“What? Am I looking like I need to diet?” I try to contort my body to get a look at my backside.

She sighs again. “I was making a point.”

“Not very well. Not if you have to call me fat to do so.” I snicker.

“You call me cheap all the time!” Haley accuses.

“You are cheap,” I remind her.

“I’m frugal. We’re very wasteful here in L.A. I learned how much money my ex wasted when I had to stay in that seedy motel. You really don’t need that much to get by. I simply love thinking about every penny that goes out. It makes me feel powerful.”

“It makes you look cheap.”

“Whatever. You won’t be laughing when I leave you something fabulous in my will.”

“You have to actually buy something fabulous to leave it to me. Maybe I’ll point a few things out while we shop.” I wink at her. It’s really easy to forget your joy in life when things suddenly go fantastically bad. And you’re alone. The Bible says man was not meant to be alone—well, neither was I. I’m terrible at being alone and yet afraid to get back out in the world. A terrible mixture of issues—leave it to me to make life complicated. “Why don’t you move back in until your wedding, Haley, and you can remind me how great my life is?”

Haley stopped renting from me to buy her own condo near her work. Just as I was about to put it back on the market, Ron passed away, and the thought of being in our big house alone got the best of me. I moved back in and when I felt up to it, wiped the Pacific Palisades house clean of our memories. Most of them, anyway. Now that probate is almost up, the mansion and its mix of memories, good and bad, will be sold to the highest bidder.

Haley picks up my wedding photo from the table in the foyer. “Lindsay, I’m not kidding. I think you should get out of here or make some kind of effort to spend less time here. You bought this place when Ron and you were separated—that can’t remind you of the best of times. It won’t be long before you have a cat. You mark my words.”

“Where would I go? The big house is still in the trust, and I hate that palace, anyway. It makes me feel guilty.”

“Why would you feel guilty?”

My eyes go wide. “I don’t know. I just do. A lot of things happened there that I’d just as soon forget. It’s where Ron and I started our lives together, but it’s where we ended it, too. The house feels alive to me. And not in a good way.”

“Now you’re just freaking me out. You could sell this place and buy something else. Maybe in a younger part of town.”

I shake my head to yet another one of her perky suggestions. I know she means well. I couldn’t sell this place, even if I held the deed in my hot, little hand, along with a real estate license. “This place is the only thing I own by myself that’s not in Ron’s name. Until probate clears, this is all I have and without an income…well…”

“So why don’t you get your CPA license and start up another accounting firm? You knew how to do all the work. It should be a cakewalk.”

“I just don’t have the patience to get the degree. And it won’t help me in what I want to do…Either way, I can’t sell this house.”

“So go on a vacation.”

“I don’t like to travel alone.”

“Maybe you should get a job. You could work part-time. It worked wonders for me. You could go back to Nordstrom.”

“The last thing I want to do is fit men who have no business in a double-breasted suits, in double-breasted suits.”

“They’re out of style anyway,” she says hopefully. “Maybe you could be a stylist?” She presses her finger to her chin. “An interior decorator? I know—a stager! The world is your oyster. You’re so good at all that artistic stuff, and Ron left you enough to start any business you wanted.”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“I’m worried you’re finding excuses. For all we know, the will could go on for years. Wherever there’s money and lawyers involved, you might as well sit back and wait it out. What better way than to keep yourself busy?”

“Must I remind you that you’re marrying a lawyer?”

“I’m marrying him despite the fact that he’s a lawyer.” She smiles. She gets that mournful look again as she stares at me. “Lindsay, you don’t have to go dress shopping with me. You seem so down today. Maybe we should just get a pedicure instead.”

“No, we’re going to shop. Let’s go!” I say, clapping my hands together. Haley clearly needs to see some enthusiasm on my part, and who can blame her? No one wants to be around Eeyore for long, and I’ve been a complete downer for more than a year now. She wants to shop for her wedding gown, not hear about my pathetic life.

It’s not like I should have been surprised. I knew this would happen with my husband being so much older than me. It’s part of the Trophy Wife syndrome. I simply didn’t think it would happen so soon. Ron was young. Fifty-three is far too early to cash in—we had our whole lives in front of us. We had travel, a family—a whole world set before us—and he had to go and die on me. I clench my teeth and smile. “When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Am I right?”

Haley throws open the curtains. “Sheesh, you’re even starting to live like them. Afraid of the light. Let’s get out of here before you vant to suck my blood.”

I blink against the sun’s rays. “I just don’t like how my neighbors peer in here all the time. It’s like I’m being watched, my place surrounded by little, furry sentinels. You remember the flying monkeys in Wizard of Oz?”

“I hated that movie. Except for the ruby slippers, of course.” Haley grins.

“Of course.”

She finishes pulling the curtains wide open and walks back to the foyer. She adjusts a painting, so that it’s lopsided on the wall. She shrugs. “I’m trying to show you can let things go. It’s too neat in here. Don’t you miss me living here and making it feel like a home?”

“In a word? No.” But of course, I miss her terribly. I miss her tales about what star she’d met that day at her agenting office, about the young actors’ pathetic attempts to get a meeting with her boss, her cooking…but all these nice thoughts disappear as I speak. “I don’t miss your empty tubs of frosting! I don’t think you ever threw one away or realized where the garbage can was—or the dishwasher. Did you know that it opens?” I straighten the picture. “How you stay so thin with all that frosting, I’ll never know. One day it’s going to catch up with you.”

“No, I have a system. One tub equals ten miles. I have to run ten miles and then I get to start on a tub of frosting. The faster I run, the faster I eat. As for cleaning up, have you ever eaten a tub of frosting? The last thing you want to do is clean afterwards.”

“How can you be anal-retentive about chowing down a tub of frosting? You’re after me for wanting to clean?”

“It’s a gift.” Haley motions toward the window. “Like the gift you have for organizing things and wanting to clean is different from having your shoes thrown on your closet floor. We’re all dichotomies.”

“That’s all I’ve done for the last year is organize things. Organize the funeral, organize the bank statements, organize Ron’s closet, organize charities to pick up his things. I’m sick of organizing.”

“That’s a start. Quit organizing things.”

“Spoken by the woman who is having me organize her groom’s gift and wedding favors.”

“Well, but that’s fun organizing.”

“All organizing is fun organizing.”

Her lighthearted tone changes. “So if you had one wish, Lindsay. One dream. What would it be?”

I think about the monumental moments of my life and I’m filled with regret. A Christian shouldn’t be filled with regrets, but focused on the heavenly realms and what lies ahead. Which is why I feel so horribly guilty over my answer. “I wish I could start over. I wish I could take everything I’ve done wrong back and have a do-over.”

“So do it. Erase your history and start again. Jesus gives you a do-over in heaven. Why not start here?”

I feel hope well up inside me for the first time in years. A do-over. That’s exactly what I need. “Where would I start?”

“Maybe something as simple as changing the routines you’ve become stuck in.”

“What’s wrong with my routines?” I cross my arms, thinking about scrubbing down the showers on Monday. How does one simply change that to Tuesday without a domino effect? When would I vacuum the living room if not on Tuesday?

Haley shakes her head. “You can’t change anything if you keep the same routines.”

She’s got a point. “I scrub the showers on Monday.”

“Showers? Lindsay, you’re one person. Why do you need to scrub all the showers on Monday?”

“It’s what my mother always did.”

“It’s a good start. Scrub your shower only on Monday. Let the other ones go.”

“One day, you’re not scrubbing the shower; the next day, the short-sleeved shirts are hanging with the long-sleeved ones and it’s absolute chaos!” I’m only half-kidding.

Haley opens her mouth. “No, I’m not even going to respond to that. The very fact that you said that scares me. So let’s shop now—otherwise you’ll be polishing the silver before we go.”

Haley peeks out the window. “They’re fascinated by you, you know. Your neighbors and their cats. That clean aroma coming from here probably makes them uncomfortable. Like garlic.” She giggles. “Maybe if you wore little spray cans of Lysol around your neck, they’d want to move. WAALAAH! Instant turnover.”

“Would you cut it out? It’s voilà! It’s French.”

“Whatever. I’m Haley, have we met? I’m American, and I shop at Old Navy and watch bad television. My French is a little rusty.”

I sigh. Haley is not as simple as she thinks. She was married to one of Hollywood’s richest producers and ran his soirées with little trouble—that is, until she turned of age (twenty-eight). Like a leased Mercedes, he turned her in for a new model. Haley only pretends to be simple when it suits her. She remembers the neighbors even if she plays innocent. “The women here are not that bad, you know. You just have to get to know them. Mrs. Davenport was just telling me last night that—”

“Mrs. Davenport? You talk to them? They would scurry in their places at the very sight of me when I lived here.”

I shrug. “Sometimes I talk to them. They’re my neighbors.”

“She was married? Which one is she? The one with the brunette wig that doesn’t fit?” Haley cups her eyes at the window and peers outside, but she quickly backs away. No doubt, she found someone peering back at her.

“See? I told you it was creepy.”

Haley closes the curtains and turns around. “You must live a more interesting life. They didn’t do that when I was here. Let’s get out of here already.”

I am not having this conversation. “Where are we going for dresses?”

Haley lowers her voice. “Remember, Linds—there’s a difference between organizing and controlling. I want you to help me find a dress. I don’t want you to bulldoze me. I am not spending a fortune on a gown.”

“I’m not controlling you! I just want you to get the best. You deserve the best.” I can understand though. Haley has an ex-husband who would make Cinderella think twice about marriage.

“I’m still buying off the rack,” she deadpans, as though she’s winning something for herself.

“Fine. Maybe we can find a flour sack at Whole Foods and add sequins.”

“You think?”

I grab my sweater out of the closet and reach for the doorknob when the bell rings. “Who could that be?” I ask.

“Maybe someone needs a cup of gizzards.”

Opening the door, there’s a middle-aged woman standing on my stoop. She’s pretty, but in that funky, Berkeley kind of way, with a multicolored tunic and flowing, crushed-cotton slacks. Definitely not from around here, because she looks her age, which I would guestimate as near fifty. She’s standing beside a very large suitcase and a cat carrier. I bend over and see there’s a cat inside. Just what this complex needs.

“Can I help you?” The mother ship? Your cat people?

She looks down at an envelope and then back up at me. She has bright, blue eyes and perfect cheekbones, although her face is lined from the sun and she definitely comes from a place with a serious lack of sunscreen. “Lindsay Brindle?”

“That’s me. Am I being served with something? Because I’ve never actually seen a lawsuit arrive with a kitty cat.” I try to keep my voice light, but her presence brings a foreboding that I can’t put my finger on—and I don’t believe the cat is a good omen.

She laughs. “Heavens, no. I’m…” She clutches the envelope and sucks in a deep breath. “I’m Jane Dawson.” She shoves the envelope into an oversized (read: cheap) canvas bag and reaches her hand out toward me. “Jane Brindle Dawson.”

I feel my head sway from side to side. And I’m dizzy. It can’t be. I hold my hand up to the doorjamb to steady myself and let my eyes take her in fully. Now that I know her identity, Jane appears more beautiful than she was five minutes ago, more worldly and intelligent. Capable and self-reliant. Jealously surges through me.

Suddenly, her appearance at my door is beginning to make sense. “You’re the unnamed executor of the will?”

She nods slowly. The one woman with the ability to unravel my life, and she’s here on my doorstep with a cat. It’s a sign, I tell you. At least now I have proof. There can be no question that this is divine penance. The cats are God’s vultures, circling and waiting for my time to come.

I married for security. Now, my husband is gone, and so is any hope I had in being secure—and to make matters worse, this message comes to me courtesy of yet another cat.

A do-over. As if.