Chapter 1

“Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”

–Carl Jung

Although they were meant to turn inward during yoga class, their focus was communal. They studied the mirror’s reflection—a group of women clad in black, streamlined clothing, posed on a floor dotted with colorful mats. They looked and judged themselves and the others although the practice of yoga was not meant for such vanity. Each member of the class was virtually a carbon copy of the other, though made distinct by her story, her mishap. In a small town, nothing went under the radar.

Their instructor led them through the poses, first seated with deep breaths, then upright, and then onto all fours. Sukhasana to urdhva vrikshasana to adho-mukha-svanasana. They moved as one to virabhadrasana I—or warrior I—looking up through raised, sinewy arms. They moved as one to virabhadrasana II—warrior II—and gazed out over their second fingers into the mirror, well aware of the areas on their bodies that still needed work. They moved as one through additional sun salutations and balancing poses, noting who in the studio maintained stillness and who faltered.

They moved, and their instructor, Yogi Jack, studied them, occasionally reminding them to breathe, to lengthen. He traveled quietly through the studio, widening stances, increasing stretches, and spotting bends. He adjusted them all but repeatedly returned and lingered with a select few.

They watched him, too. Handsome. Athletic. Desirable. Who would be his favorite today? Who would be the chosen adjustment?

They moved until settling into the dark and quiet in corpse pose—legs extended and arms at their sides. Shavasana. It was a time of personal reflection, but Jack continued to engage them. He moved from body to body, catlike, pushing down shoulders, gently tugging on legs, massaging necks and foreheads. He realigned bodies that had become stiff and uneven from the stress unique to mothers in a wealthy suburb.

Prone with eyes closed, the women could no longer study the mirror’s reflection. Their obsessive watching and their judgments—which were ultimately an avoidance of deeper thought—slowed. They finally relaxed. Similar to the moments before sleep, rational lines of thought blurred. Storylines intersected. Their personal censors were muted.

“Let go,” Jack intoned. “Let go of who you think you are.

“You are not your car.

“You are not your house.

“Don’t let material things define you.

“Don’t let the acquisition of them confine you.

“Open your mind.

“Release your imagination.

“When you do, anything is possible.

“You are divine.

“You are a goddess.”

They were here for more than a workout—they hoped to absorb an ancient, transformative wisdom, but their commitment to personal growth wasn’t likely to last beyond the moment. They would exit the darkened room and turn their iPhones back on. They would walk to their luxury cars. They would return to their impressive homes. The physical manifestations of their blinding and damning materialism would once again envelop them.

But before leaving, they were instructed to sit on their mats, cross-legged, hands at heart center—the sacred anjali mudra. They turned to face each other while Yogi Jack positioned himself at the studio’s center. The reflected view was gone. No more judgments buffered by darkness and indirect vistas. They were face-to-face.

“Namaste,” said Yogi Jack. “Honor and acknowledge your fellow yogis.”

“Namaste,” they echoed. They bowed to Jack and to each other, one at a time. Remembering, as they did, each woman’s story. Her flaw.

Beautiful and kind Kate Musto was raised by a drunk and saddled with a tenuous self-confidence. Her days were a juggle of masking a scarred childhood and an abusive marriage.

Spendthrift and drinker Leigh Gilding, the comical queen of a monstrous developer’s McMansion—a gigantic, oddly designed structure—was on a quest to void her trailer park history. As her children languished in her attic, money remained her king.

Garish and angry Brianna Worth—no stranger to the community’s police blotter—strived for approval in a town that would never embrace her. What lengths would she go to for acceptance?

And pretty and popular Adair Burns wanted nothing more than happiness. She wanted her husband and kids to love her. She wanted the community to admire her. She wanted Yogi Jack to desire her. Rejecting reality time and time again, she wanted and wanted and wanted.

They sat in lotus position in the lingering seconds of the class, wishing the vibe could last. It carried with it the promise of change—a break from their manic, perfectionist lifestyles—but they were torn. They had all bought into the same dream: an easy life filled with beautiful things and karmic debts that never had to be paid. Their dream was blinding. It kept them from knowing their own hearts.

Chapter 2

Elizabeth Kelly entered the yoga studio just before class started. She had already dropped off her daughters, Alexis and Alice, at school. After class, she would head into the magazine where she worked. But right now Elizabeth was looking forward to having an hour to herself.

Yogi Jack sat in lotus position at the front of the room. This was Elizabeth’s first class with him, and she found that he was as handsome as she had been told. His thick, sandy-blond hair was parted to the side, and his features were perfectly proportioned. His hair was cut tight, which made him look boyish although he was clearly in his midforties. He was thin and toned, wearing loose, black Hind pants and a gray-blue Under Armour T-shirt. The outfit was a far cry from the typical male fitness instructor getup of tight shorts and athletic shirts.

He seemed gentle. Elizabeth knew very little about him, but just before class started, she surprised herself by thinking, I would have dated him in college.

The friends who insisted she try Yogi Jack’s class said he began with a short, sobering, yoga-related teaching. He read a quote from Gandhi or Rumi and extrapolated, connecting it to something currently relevant. Jack appeared to be on a high that day; as Elizabeth rolled out her mat, she overheard him say that he was just back from a yoga retreat.

“It’s nice to see all of you again,” he said as he began the class. “And welcome to those of you who are new. As most of you know, I was away running a week-long yoga retreat in Costa Rica. Sixteen women attended. We had a marvelous time.”

Jack went on with what sounded like an infomercial, describing days filled with yoga classes and other physical activities, naps and alone time, and meals of fresh fruit and seafood.

“Nights were spent leisurely at a long dinner table with food prepared for us by a personal chef,” he said. “Even though it was a yoga retreat, there was no shortage of wine with dinner. During my retreats, we create the world we wish we could live in—a world based on giving and receiving love, of trust and of challenging ourselves, of questioning convention and following our hearts. We create strong emotional connections and stay in touch until the next trip, when we can all be together again. I hope some of you will join me next time.”

It was February—freezing. For a group of mothers who’d felt somewhat housebound for months, Jack was describing the Garden of Eden. Elizabeth wasn’t used to instructors like him. He spoke so personally. The instructors she had encountered always kept a kind of ubiquitous distance, especially those she had in Manhattan. It was obvious that Jack wanted to draw his audience in. He wanted to build a following.

Jack scanned the darkened room then, and his eyes settled on her. “You’re new,” he said. Wide-eyed, she obediently nodded up and down like a kindergartener on her first day of school. She blushed.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Elizabeth,” she replied.

“Welcome, Elizabeth,” he said with a smile, amused that his attention embarrassed her. “Are you ready for the movement part of the class to start?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, feeling shy and wanting his eyes off of her.

Yogi Jack taught many different types of yoga—hatha, kripalu, bikram—in several Fairfield County studios and in his own personal studio in Cannondale, but his Wednesday morning class was ashtanga yoga, an often strenuous combination of standing and sitting movements linked to conscious breathing and meditation.

As Elizabeth had been told, Jack’s class had a pleasant, gentle flow to it. Twenty minutes in, she was completely relaxed and in rhythm. Her mind had quieted, and that day’s to-do list was temporarily buried.

Several times during the class, Jack stood behind her and adjusted her position. The adjustments were intended to teach proper alignment and maximize the position while building trust between student and instructor. Other times, when she sat in child’s pose, he laid his hands on her lower spine. Elizabeth felt a complete sense of calm when he touched her back.

She wondered if his touch had some sort of power to it. She wondered if she was having a sexual response. Aside from a massage, it’d been years—more than fifteen years—since anyone other than her husband had touched her in this way. But it was more than the touch. There was something overtly sexual to Jack’s class. She couldn’t place it exactly.

Elizabeth looked at the clock as they neared the end of class. “Last position,” Jack said. “Now it’s time to move to shavasana or ‘stillness.’ Lay on your back. Allow your hands to fall to your sides with your palms up and your feet slightly spread apart. Relax.”

Elizabeth lay down but clasped her hands over her stomach. At that moment, it was the position that felt most comfortable.

“Relax,” he repeated in a whisper just loud enough for his students to hear. “Breathe. You have nowhere to go, nothing to do. Be still. Let go. Let go of who you think you are. Let go of who you think you need to be. Right now you are you. You are not a wife. You are not a mother. You are not a daughter or a sister. You are not an employee. You are who you are at your deepest core—a woman with individual wants and needs. Entertain those wants and needs. Embrace them; don’t stifle them. Open yourself to new possibilities. Think about different ways of living your life.”

Several minutes later, Yogi Jack’s hands touched Elizabeth’s forehead. He massaged it as well as her scalp. She noticed a faint scent of eucalyptus. Without thinking, Elizabeth’s hands started to fall apart and glide to the floor. She was in a pose of complete stillness. For a person who felt guarded most of the time, she was shocked by what felt like submission.

After a few more minutes, the class was instructed to sit up in sukhasana pose. Next, they said the yoga-type “namaste” good-byes. The class was over.

As the women rolled up their mats and put on their shoes, Jack stood in the center of the room.

“I’ll be here for a few minutes if anyone wants to speak with me,” he said. “Please be sure to sign up for my email list. I’ll send you updates to my class schedule and my availability for private sessions.”

Elizabeth was in the corner tying her shoelaces. She watched the rest of the women as they left. A number of them fell into Jack’s arms as he embraced them. One—an attractive, fit woman in her forties—smiled up at him during the hug and gave him a kiss on the lips. He kissed back and smiled. They shared a secret—they were lovers. The woman made a quick exit, and Jack continued on with his overly friendly good-byes.

Another woman approached him and, after a hug, showed him what appeared to be a hip tattoo. Elizabeth wondered how many women in the room were sleeping with him. Then it hit her. She knew why parts of Jack’s class made her feel uneasy. Although the sequence was standard ashtanga yoga, Jack’s version had its own spin.

He structured his classes like sex.

There was a friendly, gentle vibe as the students sat and waited for class to start. When Jack spoke in his intimate way, they mentally opened up. Lights lowered and movement started, which slowly built in intensity as Jack led the class through increasingly challenging poses, adjusting the women throughout. Classic arousing songs played softly. As the movements repeated, the students became heated. Jack added more challenging poses, and the women began lightly perspiring. The climax came during the difficult final pose—a backbend. The class ended with a rest period.

A Google search later revealed that other yoga instructors structured their classes in the same way. There were even students who used these classes as foreplay. This was news to Elizabeth, as she was not seasoned enough to know. What she experienced in Yogi Jack’s class was different, and the entire scene—the talk, the well-run class, the attractive yoga instructor and his groupies—fascinated her.

Elizabeth was so bewitched that it preoccupied her for the rest of the day: during work, when picking up her children from school, and while making dinner. She tried to reach her sister, Abby, to tell her about the class and ask whether she had ever been to one like it.

When she heard her husband’s car pull into the driveway, she ran to the door to greet him. As he entered their home, her hands encircled his waist and pulled him close.

Looking him in the eyes, Elizabeth said, “I need to have sex with you right now.”

Andrew looked surprised.

“I went to this amazing yoga class, and I’ve been incredibly turned on all day,” she continued.

“Yoga?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“A yoga class?” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said. “I can’t explain it exactly, but it was a combination of the poses and the music and the dark room and the instructor and his adjustments… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about sex since.”

“His adjustments?” Andrew asked. “A guy?”

“He touches everyone,” she said, “to guide us into the right positions.”

Elizabeth pushed Andrew toward his office. Once inside, she kissed him hard and pulled him close, allowing their bodies to touch, and locked the door behind them. Elizabeth tugged him down to the floor and, while straddling his thighs, started undoing his pants.

Andrew’s mind flashed to the last time she did this to him, during a drunken night on a vacation they took without their kids. Afterward they’d passed out on the beach and were woken by the hotel’s security guard.

Elizabeth slid her underwear off, mounted him, and guided him inside of her. She let out a happy sigh of relief as her daylong desire was satisfied. She rocked, her torso upright, her head tilted back slightly, her eyes closed, grinding against her husband. Andrew watched her.

A male yoga instructor? he thought. They had been married over ten years, and he still wanted her as much as he did the first night they met. But does she? he questioned. Who is she thinking about right now?

As if sensing Andrew’s concern, Elizabeth leaned forward and kissed him. “I missed you today,” she whispered in his ear.

Reassured, Andrew’s hands moved to her waist, encouraging her movements. He wanted her to enjoy this, and he wanted her to initiate it more—with him. As Andrew pushed deeper into her, his mind flooded with endorphins. She missed me today, he thought.

* * *

Later that night, after their children had fallen asleep, Elizabeth was giddy telling Andrew about her yoga experience. “Jack’s handsome, he’s suave, and he’s definitely sleeping with a number of women in the class,” she said as they lay in bed. “All this in conservative, perfect Cannondale. Can you believe it?”

“Absolutely,” Andrew replied. “Remember the personal trainer in Darien who was having affairs with seven married women at the same time? None of them thought he was sleeping with anyone else.”

“I know,” Elizabeth said. “I know. You’re right. It’s no different, but I still find it shocking. And this time I’m not just hearing a story after the fact—I saw how this guy operates firsthand. I can’t wait to tell Abby about him. I’m going to bring her to his class the next time she visits. She’d like him. It’s too bad he doesn’t work in Manhattan. Private sessions with him might be just what she needs to get her mind off Colin.”

“Are you serious?” Andrew responded. “You want to hook your sister up with a lothario within months of her husband’s suicide? How is that a good idea?”

“He would just be a distraction for her,” Elizabeth said. “She’s seasoned and way too smart to fall for him.”

“It’s really an awful idea, Elizabeth,” Andrew said, smiling. “Come to think of it, maybe I should have become a fitness instructor,” he joked. ”Having sex with lonely, beautiful women while someone else pays their bills sounds like a good gig.”

Andrew had a point. Jack enjoyed the physical benefits from these unhappy housewives but dealt with none of the difficult relationships. These women weren’t complaining about their kids to him. They weren’t asking for a new car or a bigger house. They asked for nothing but sex—at least in theory.

Based on what Elizabeth discovered about Jack online after the class—his privileged upbringing, his sailing scholarship, his MBA from Georgetown—he would be prime marriage material for most of the women in his class. Jack’s background allowed his students to feel instantly comfortable with him. His only apparent drawbacks were his relatively newfound status as a yoga instructor and his self-proclaimed rejection of worldly possessions. Those aspects of him didn’t appeal to most of the women who took his classes. They needed someone who could and wanted to support their current lifestyles.

“I enjoyed my homecoming, but aren’t there other yoga teachers you can go to?” Andrew asked Elizabeth, bringing her back to the conversation.

“Yes, there are, and I’ve taken classes with a number of them in town, but his class is exceptionally good,” she responded. “Don’t worry. I’m not interested in him. Oh, guess who takes private sessions with Jack?”

“Who?” Andrew asked.

“Adair Burns!” she said. “He comes to her home every Monday. She’s into partner yoga, which is a very intimate form of body-on-body yoga. They use each other to get the best stretch out of the workout. She said it’s amazing.”

“No partner yoga with Yogi Jack for you,” Andrew responded. “That sounds like a slippery slope.”

“Oh, shut up, Andrew,” joked Elizabeth, though she was aroused just by the thought of it. Looking coyly at her husband, she slipped off her nightie and tugged down his boxers.

Andrew’s eyes brightened. “Round two?” he asked, instantly hard.

“Round two,” she repeated as she slowly ran her hands up his legs and gently took him into her mouth.

Chapter 3

Oh no! Elizabeth thought as she glanced at her iPhone a few weeks later. Three texts and two missed calls from Abby in the last fifteen minutes? I hope she’s okay.

Elizabeth quickly speed-dialed her older sister. The phone rang once and then went to voice mail: “Hello, you’ve reached the office of Abigail Davis-Powers. Sorry to have missed your call. Please leave a message or, if it’s urgent, contact my assistant, Rebecca Burke. Thank you!” Beep.

“Abby, it’s me,” said Elizabeth. “Call me. I hope everything’s okay.”

Elizabeth contemplated calling Rebecca but decided against it. Rebecca was Abby’s new, fresh-out-of-college assistant. Odds were good that Rebecca wouldn’t know what the missed calls and texts were about.

God, I hope it’s not something with one of the kids, thought Elizabeth. Maybe she ran into one of Colin’s old colleagues. That always upsets her. Her last call was just five minutes ago. Why isn’t she picking up?

Colin had been married to Abby for eleven years when he jumped off the roof of the University Club in midtown Manhattan. Abby had been inside at Stewart Browning’s forty-fifth birthday party.

It was a lavish affair with over three hundred guests—largely investment bankers and their perfectly groomed wives. Stewart’s wife, Michelle, had spared no expense making the ballroom look absolutely beautiful. Individually spotlighted from above, the silk moiré-covered tables were decorated with large, artful arrangements of cherry blossoms, stargazer lilies, and trailing ivy. In honor of the year Stewart was promoted to managing director at J.P. Morgan, vintage 1996 Dom Pérignon was poured. After the cocktail period, a main course of filet mignon and lobster was served. Stewart’s favorite childhood band, The Eagles, started up their set as dinner was ending.

Before excusing himself and heading to the roof, Colin commented that the event must have cost over $200,000. “I wanted to host a party like this for your forty-fifth birthday,” he’d said to Abby. Abby didn’t say anything at the time, but she’d felt it was inappropriately extravagant.

Parties like this were common until September 2008, but after the economic crash, even the word “luxury” seemed stricken from usage. The overnight disappearance of so many finance jobs negatively impacted bankers as well as those who provided services for them—contractors, landscapers, grocers, doormen, personal trainers. And yet here was smug Stewart and pretentious Michelle acting as if the world economy hadn’t almost collapsed.

After slowly surveying the room, Colin looked Abby in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry I let you and the kids down.” He then turned and walked away.

Sensing his distress, Abby had followed him to the ballroom’s doorway. She grabbed his hand and looked pleadingly into his eyes. “Colin, what’s going on?” she’d asked. “Talk to me.”

“I’m okay,” he’d said. “Really. Just going to get some air. I’ll be back shortly.”

Colin and Stewart met as undergraduates at Tufts University. They’d remained close friends since, but Abby had contemplated throwing away the party invitation when she first received it. She knew the gala would upset Colin.

He’d lost his job as the head of the Lehman Brothers’ Credit Default Swap Desk along with most of the family’s money the year before. Somehow Stewart and many of their friends were still employed and, although impacted by the great recession, few were in such a dire place as the Powers.

Colin appeared unemployable. No one was investing in the unregulated structured finance products that he had spent nearly his entire career managing. Dubbed “financial weapons of mass destruction,” they were blamed for the crash. His expertise made him toxic. Big banks wouldn’t hire him. Hedge funds didn’t want to be associated with him. Fear was rampant in the financial industry.

For four months, Colin had been trying to get another job. He’d attended job fairs, which were beneath him even in his early twenties, but he was desperate. After one such fair, he contemplated stepping in front of a subway train. He pulled himself back from the yellow line, but the thought had nonetheless been planted.

Abby, a successful real estate broker with Benedict Mathews Farnsworth, was struggling, too. After the crash, all her seller clients pulled their listings. Her buyers were only interested in predatory deals from desperate sellers. Brokers used to years of escalating real estate prices were panicked and increasingly difficult to work with.

The Powers had decided on a plan: intending to downsize, they listed their apartment and would rent it if they didn’t get the price they wanted. They rented their vacation home. They looked for alternative school options for their two kids. They asked for financial help from their parents.

On the day the Brownings’ invitation arrived, Abby said, “Let’s go just to be polite. He’s a good friend and contact for you. When you want to leave, we will.”

Within an hour of Colin’s suicide, the story led the ten o’clock news: FORMER LEHMAN EXEC JUMPS, DISTRAUGHT WIFE AT SCENE. There was limited reporting but plenty of striking visuals:

A hastily taped-off crime scene between Cartier’s flagship store and the granite façade of The University Club.

A body under a tarp on Fifth Avenue.

The suicide victim’s black tie-attired friends cradling one another, tourists in denim and sneakers acting as a striking counterpart.

A line of chauffeured town cars waiting to take the victim’s distraught acquaintances home.

In the following days, the Powers suicide received a lot of play. It was front-page international news and appeared in the Manhattan tabloids for a week. Not since the fall of Lehman Brothers had one news event so profoundly symbolized the impact of the financial market collapse on the one percent.

The night of Colin’s suicide, Elizabeth and Andrew were sitting in a movie theatre. They had turned their phones to vibrate, planning to only pick up if their babysitter called. A half hour into the film, Elizabeth’s phone started a perpetual quiver. She ignored the first few calls from her mother and one from Abby, thinking they were related to an upcoming family gathering. But when Abby’s best friend’s name appeared on her phone, Elizabeth picked up.

Today, two months after that awful night, Elizabeth was panicking. When her phone finally rang with Abby’s return call, she rushed to answer.

“Abby, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay,” Abby said, scanning the online Cannondale rental listings in search of a new home for her family of three. My kids are finally going to have a yard to play in and a driveway to ride bikes in, Abby thought, noting the listings’ lush green expanses and long driveways. That’s good. Maybe we’ll get a dog or two.

“Yes, everything is okay, Elizabeth,” Abby continued. “Nothing to worry about. I just wanted to tell you my news.”

“What news?” Elizabeth asked, relieved.

“Guess who’s moving back to Connecticut?”

“What?” Elizabeth exclaimed. “No way!”

“Yes, way,” said Abby. “That is, unless I pull a Colin and jump off a building. I have no other choice.”

“But you hate suburbia,” said Elizabeth. “Even as a child, you hated it. It’s too staid for you.”

“Well, life has a funny way of playing out, doesn’t it?” Abby quipped. “It isn’t public knowledge yet, so don’t repeat it, but Benedict Mathews Farnsworth is acquiring White’s Realty. The Bloom Brothers asked me about the firm a month ago—they know I grew up in Cannondale. I asked them if they’re going to keep the firm’s current manager. They aren’t, so I asked for the job.”

“You? A manager and mentor of other real estate agents?” Elizabeth said incredulously. “Really?”

“It’s a salaried job,” she responded. “I need a steady income, so I’m going to have to learn how to mentor. I start in two weeks.”

“Wow! That is fast. What about dealing with the suburban clients and your neighbors? You can barely hide your disdain for people out here, especially the Cannondale women.”

“I can fake it when I have to,” said Abby. “I’ve had to work with a number of them over the years. And I’ll have you nearby to meet for coffee so that we can have a good laugh over it. One upside to the move is that I can live near you again, and our kids will get to be together more often.”

“I’m sorry to say it, but I’m selfishly kind of thrilled by your news,” Elizabeth admitted. “What are you going to do with your apartment?”

“Rent it. Even in this market I can easily get $20,000 a month for it, which will cover the building’s maintenance and its taxes plus some. I’m definitely returning to the city when the New York market rebounds and the kids are older.”

“Abigail Davis back in the ‘burbs… Is there anyone we should warn?”

“Maybe Mrs. Harris, if she’s still alive,” joked Abby.

“Oh my God,” laughed Elizabeth. “The muffins. That poor woman.”

The day Abby and Elizabeth’s family moved into their second home in Stamford, their neighbor Karen Harris baked them blueberry muffins. She put them in a wicker basket and left them on their front stoop with a colorful “Welcome to the Neighborhood” note. Abby got to them first, and within an hour all of the muffins and the basket were littered across the Harris’ driveway. Abby and her best friend, Gigi Tollbrook, had thrown them at the house from Abby’s bedroom window. Little round stains appeared on the exterior paint where the muffins hit the home.

“I was horrified when you did that,” Elizabeth recalled. “Mrs. Harris was so sweet.”

“Her son used to follow me around at school,” said Abby. “He was totally creepy. I didn’t want anyone in the Harris family to think they could come over to our house just because we were neighbors. Is my old Confraternity of Christian Doctrine teacher, Mrs. Clement, still around?”

“Yes, Mom hangs out with her,” Elizabeth said.

“Remember when Gigi and I snuck onto her property and cut all the heads off her flowers the night before Mother’s Day?”

“I do,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “Her beautiful garden was transformed into a sea of green stalks. That was really mean, too.”

“She was so uptight,” Abby insisted, “and she told Mom that I skipped her classes.”

As a child, Abby was always in some kind of low-grade trouble. She was mischievous and fun, and boys loved hanging out with her. But as she got older, she became increasingly irreverent, and the trouble turned real. Abby spent her teens doing the exact opposite of what their prim mother wanted: she got kicked out of two private schools, she totaled her new car by driving it into a parked vehicle on the family’s street, she partied before coming home to their family’s daily formal dinners, and she never made curfew. Abby was so bad that when she left for college, the relief in their house was palpable.

Paradoxically, what saved Abby in adulthood was a desire to feel as powerful as she had felt in her family. After college, she moved to Manhattan, a place where money equals power, and realized that bravado without a career would get her nowhere. Not one to rely on someone else for support, Abby dabbled in the fashion industry before turning to real estate. In a business where most everyone you meet can be considered a potential client or point of referral, Abby started to care what people thought of her. In the ways that would directly benefit her, Abby conformed.

“Mrs. Milburn must be dead by now,” Abby continued. “She was old when she was our babysitter.”

“Yes, she’s long gone,” Elizabeth said. “Those clear glass marbles at the top of the stairs… She knew to be wary of you.”

“She was awful,” added Abby of their mother’s favorite and strictest babysitter. “If she had fallen and broken something, we would have been free of her for a few months. You would have been thanking me.”

“Thanking you?” Elizabeth repeated.

“Well, I’m tamer now,” Abby asserted.

“Only around people you want to make money off of,” responded Elizabeth. “Real estate was the best thing that happened to you.”

“Will you house hunt with me?” Abby asked Elizabeth. “I’m looking at rentals online now.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth said.

“What gym should I join?” she asked.

“FIT is good, or there are lots of boutique gyms,” Elizabeth offered. “Oh, and I definitely want you to come with me to Yogi Jack’s classes. Do you remember when I told you about him? The hot one with the groupies? He also offers private sessions that are supposed to be amazing. My friend Adair said her sessions with him are the best two hours of her week.”

“Sign me up,” Abby said.

By Ann Lineberger

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

“Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”

–Carl Jung

Chapter 2

Chapter 3