Then I stop short, and not out of guilt at this uncharitable thought. A woman stands alone, facing us from the very rear of the gathering. Dressed all in black—black blazer, slacks, and glasses—she looks vaguely exotic or would, if not for her hair. Though exotically dark, it is pulled into a messy bun that has nothing to do with style. Her beach waves simply won’t otherwise behave. I know. We’ve discussed it dozens of times.

“Look, Mom!” Joy cries on a note of delight, but I’m already running forward.

“Chrissie,” I say and hold her tightly for a long, long minute. “You did not have to come.”

“Where else would I be? You’re my best friend.”

“Thank you,” I say. Drawing back, I take what feels like my first deep breath in hours. Chrissie represents such a sane part of my world that the sight of her brings instant relief. “Did you just drive up? I didn’t see you in the church. You should have sat with us.”

“Oh, no,” says my friend. “I didn’t make it to the church. Bad traffic out of the city, and Kian had a nightmare accident in his Captain America undies that I couldn’t leave for the nanny, so I was late. And anyway, I’m here under the radar, just for you. And Joy,” she adds with a brighter smile and open arms for my daughter. “Joyzie. I’m so sorry about your grandfather.” The hug barely ends when the direction of those dark glasses shifts to the man who has come up by my shoulder. “This is Jack.” Suddenly shy, even nervous, she holds out her hand.

“The notorious Chrissie,” Jack remarks. I’ve named her as one of the reasons I love my life in New York, but whether he respects that or resents it is up in the air. I can’t see his eyes. Like Chrissie’s, they’re behind sunglasses. “You look familiar,” he says.

“Because she looks like me,” I explain. Chrissie and I have always joked about this.

“I do,” she says with a tentative smile—which dies altogether when her focus moves past us.

Turning my head to follow, I see Lina approaching. She wears a dowdy navy dress and clutches a small purse, neither of which is out of character for a woman who works in the shadows. But the look on her face? It is light years removed from the who-are-you stare she gave me in the kitchen Saturday morning. The one she is giving Chrissie is … what? Hurt? Shocked? Angry?

Chrissie’s eyes remain hidden, but I sense a silent panic. She seems frozen, barely breathing, like she has no idea what to do. I slip an arm through hers to let Lina know that she’s mine, but it helps neither of them. Chrissie opens her mouth to speak, closes it, and swallows.