The Knitting Circle: The uplifting and heartwarming novel you need to read this year. Ann Hood

      They pulled into the driveway behind Sara’s Volvo wagon. One like it sat in every driveway here. Sara had an annoying habit of referring to her things by brand—the Volvo, the Saab. Her purse was the Kate Spade; her shoes were the Pradas, the Adidas, the Uggs.

      Sara stood on the front steps, dressed head to toe in camel, ready to pounce on them.

      “Hey, you two,” she said. “Can you believe it? Snow on Thanksgiving? I had to pull my Uggs out of the attic.”

      She hugged them both in turn, firmly, the kind of hug Mary had come to learn was meant to express sympathy.

      Fires roared in each fireplace of each room they walked through. So perfect was each fire that Mary concluded they must be gas, not real wood ones. But then a log crackled and sent blue sparks against the screen. Maybe the fires were the only real things here.

      In one of the living rooms—Sara actually had three rooms that could be living rooms, all with carefully arranged sofas and love seats and overstuffed chairs, and small tables with magazines neatly lined up, or large books about amusement parks and Winslow Homer—stood Sara’s husband, Tim, and their two teenage sons, Timmy and Daniel, along with another family, who looked like carbon copies of them. Except Liz and Dave also had an unhappy-looking daughter, Sylvie, who stood alone sullenly eating miniature quiches.

      “Ali’s with her roommate,” Sara told Mary conspiratorially. She said everything conspiratorially. “In Virgin Gorda. Poor thing, right?”

      “Wow,” Mary said stupidly, which was how she said everything, she realized. “Virgin Gorda.”

      “Get these two a Tanqueray and tonic,” Sara told Dave, after introductions.

      “You bet,” Dave said in his overeager voice. He sold something Mary could never remember. Pharmaceuticals?

      The boys all stared at their loafers, so Mary went to stand beside Sylvie.

      “What grade are you in now?” Mary asked, finding comfort in the superfluous gesture. “Eighth?”

      “Sixth,” Sylvie said between mini quiches. “I did junior kindergarten so I’m like a year older than everyone else.” She moved on to a platter of dates wrapped in bacon.

      “Do you know about this?” Liz asked Mary. “It’s a wonderful way to build self-confidence and self-image. They do a year between kindergarten and first grade, working on social skills and reinforcing basic learning skills. Then they get into first grade and they are at the top of their class. Honestly, it’s the best idea ever.”

      Mary nodded politely and gulped at her gin and tonic. Here was where she should feel smug at how self-confident Stella was. And smart. A kid who knew her own mind. A kid who sailed through kindergarten, printing her letters perfectly, writing her numbers just so, and coloring maps of South America and China in bright colors.

      Tears stung Mary’s eyes and she turned, pretending to admire a painting that hung over the fireplace.