The Larchmont Booster Club was a small but determined organization. Founded in the sixties by a very bored woman with time on her hands, its goal was the “beautification and improvement of the Larchmont Shopping District.” Largely and not all that secretly inspired by Anne of Green Gables and her Avonlea Village Improvement Society, it raised money for things like median flower plantings, repainting the lampposts, repainting the benches, repainting the curb, and generally repainting anything that stood still too long. On the one hand it wasn’t important, but on the other hand it really was, because there was no getting away from the fact that Larchmont Boulevard was easy on the eye.

In the six decades since its founding, the LBC had transformed several times. In its first decade alone it had gone from a Phyllis Schlafly–esque twinset-and-pearls affair to a hippie counterculture collective and then into second-wave feminism and turtlenecks. It had languished a little in recent times, but when Liz at the bookstore was voted in as its new president—in absentia, or they never would have dared—she decided to hold meetings at her friend Maggie’s house every month, and to hold them in the form of Poker Nights. All proceeds to the boosters, of course, and potluck offerings strongly encouraged and discussed over text for days beforehand. Within six months the booster club had enough operating capital to take the rest of the year off, but Maggie kept the Poker Nights going with her own core team.

As Laura walked into the kitchen, she was greeted by the dogs, who got to their feet and kept looking at her face and then at the kitchen island, their tails a blur of hopeful motion. No wonder: The whole surface was covered with small food. A quick scan showed bacon-wrapped dates, those little goat cheese puff things from Trader Joe’s, individual s’mores . . . It was a thing of beauty, and Laura cursed the pancakes she’d eaten. Bob came in behind her and immediately reached past her for a s’more.

She turned to him. “Do you play poker?”

“No,” he said with his mouth full. “One, I don’t know how, and two, Poker Night is women only.”

“Ah,” said Laura, and hesitated. “Do you mind if I . . . ?” She blushed, unsure of the right thing to do. They’d been on a date, sort of but not really, and he’d taken her home, but had also brought himself home, and she’d embarrassed herself . . . Laura could feel her internal rainbow wheel spinning, her social software stalling out.

“Go ahead,” said Bob. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“OK, well, thanks again for dinner,” she said, bending to pet Herbert, who thought maybe this was a precursor to dropped food and leaned into her legs.

“You’re welcome, thanks again for helping,” Bob said quietly.