“I KNOW THIS isn’t your cup of tea, so thank you,” Jane said. She and Liz stood in the backyard, beneath the fungus-afflicted sycamore tree.

“Just, not to sound disrespectful, but we should leave for the airport eight minutes from now,” Liz said.

Jane had invited Liz to join her as she bid a ceremonial farewell to the Tudor, which Liz superstitiously thought but did not tell Jane increased the likelihood that the prospective buyers wouldn’t like the house after all.

Jane closed her eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled, then said, “Om.” Liz didn’t close her eyes and wondered if their parents or sisters were watching from a window. “Thank you for sheltering our family all these years,” Jane said. “For keeping us warm in the winter and cool in the summer”—both claims, Liz thought, were rather generous, given the draftiness that kicked in around November and the erratic functionality of the third-floor air-conditioning—“and thank you for being a place where we celebrated holidays and played games and ate delicious meals. Even our challenges here have made our lives richer and deepened our ability to feel. Our family has been very lucky to live somewhere beautiful.”

At the mention of games, Liz had remembered a specific round of gin rummy she and Mary had played in the eighties, when Liz had gotten a perfect hand and ginned before she drew for the first time; in spite of herself, she felt genuine sadness. But it wouldn’t have been honest to attribute the sadness entirely to the Tudor’s impending sale. It also was attached to her disappointment with Jasper, a disappointment that abruptly and retroactively colored the past: All those years growing up here, she’d unknowingly been headed toward a selfish, dishonest man.

Jane said “Om” once more and opened her eyes. “Do you want to add anything?”

Liz shook her head. “I’m okay. I’ll put your suitcase in the car while you say goodbye to everyone.”