“Car crash,” said Laura, laughing when she saw Polly’s disappointed expression. “Sorry. I was driving back from snowboarding upstate. I hit a truck.” She swallowed, feeling her heart speeding up. “I don’t remember much, because several other cars got involved and I was unconscious for a while, and then I was awake but not totally . . . you know . . . together.” She shrugged again, as if nothing could be less important. “It wasn’t ideal.”

Polly, Maggie, and Bob stared at her, and she felt herself getting redder. “I’m fine now.” She added inconsequentially, “It was on the news.”

Maggie had such an expression of sympathy on her face that Laura couldn’t look at her. Instead she looked down at her legs and waited through the silence. She’d learned there really wasn’t anything good to say about the accident, and that no one was really sure how to react.

Bob, however, coughed and said, “That’s terrible, could you pass me the potatoes?”

Laura passed the bowl. She could tell, as her eyes met his, that he knew she didn’t want to talk about this and was happy to change the subject. I don’t need the details, said his face. I can tell it hurts.

Polly wasn’t as ready to move on. “Wow, how long did it take you to walk again?”

“Months,” replied Laura, “and that’s how I found out about PTs and what they do.” She thought of her therapist’s face, his kind eyes, his certainty. “My PT never quit on me, and after a while I was fine.” Well, physically fine, anyway. “I decided to pay it forward very literally by becoming a PT myself. I guess I lack imagination.”

“That sounds extremely stressful,” said Maggie.

“I guess,” replied Laura breezily. She looked around. “What about you guys? Did you all grow up here?”

Maggie looked at her thoughtfully, but let it go. “Not me, I’m from the Midwest. Detroit. I came here for college and never left. My husband and I met here, raised the kids here, and here I still am.” She shrugged. “I love my house, I love the weather, my business is thriving, why would I leave?”

Laura wanted to ask about her husband but didn’t. She turned to Bob. “And you?”

Bob grinned. “Genuine Angeleno. Born and raised in Echo Park, east of here.” He pointed at Polly. “She will claim to be one, too, but she’s from Long Beach.”

Polly pulled a face. “You’re jealous because I had the beach.”

Bob shook his head. “Not a beach guy.” He stood and started clearing the plates and serving dishes. “We’ll clean up, Maggie. Go enjoy the garden.”

“I will, thanks.” The older woman refilled her wineglass and headed outside. This was how it worked; she cooked, they cleaned. She considered it more than a fair trade, because who wouldn’t rather cook than clean?