She finished her glass of wine and got another before everyone sat down. Sadie had been in charge of the wine tonight, and Juliet had brought a couple of additional bottles, correctly anticipating that her sister wouldn’t bring enough. Not that she was cheap; she just wouldn’t think too hard about how many people were coming.

“How’s the house, Sadie?” she asked brightly as everyone sat down to dinner. “Fallen in the Sound yet?”

“Not yet,” Sadie said. “A few shingles blew off the roof last night, but I plan on getting up there and fixing all that.”

“Please don’t,” Noah said. “Hire someone.”

“I think I’m very handy, actually,” she said. “But thanks for your concern.”

“You’re handy?” Carter asked. Yes, Carter, that was his name. The friendly friend from the city. “Remember when you broke the sink in the teachers’ bathroom because you forgot which way the knobs turned?”

“I have no recollection of that event, no,” Sadie said, grinning. Always getting away with being a ditz and thinking it was charm. Maybe it was. Maybe Juliet should try it.

“Does anyone mind if I breastfeed?” asked Mickey, and, not waiting, pulled up her shirt and attached the baby. “No one is scared of boobs, right? Although I have to say, they do look a little scary these days. No one told me I’d become Joan from Mad Men after popping out this little bruiser. I was a 34-B before Noah knocked me up.” She glanced at Gillian, who looked green. “Sorry. Shit, Gillian, I’m really sorry. You too, Sadie.”

Right. Right. The event planner had been engaged to Noah. The baby was making smacking sounds.

Sadie’s teacher friend smiled. “I love watching a woman breastfeed,” he said. “So natural.”

“Thanks, dude,” Mickey said. “You’re okay.”

Dad, too, was staring at Mickey’s breast. It was hard to miss, but was he looking at it lustfully? And if so, doubly gross, because (a) it belonged to a woman not his wife and (b) it was feeding a baby, so lusting was just icky.

She really had to tell her mother about that other woman. Or she really shouldn’t ever tell her mother. God! How could her father be such an asshole? She hated him . . . except seeing him wobbly and silent and staring at a strange woman’s boob made her both want to curl into a ball and sob or kick him and also have him just die already and let her mother be free.

“Barb, this asparagus is wonderful,” said the event planner. Gillian.

“It is,” Oliver agreed. “You’re a smashing cook, Mum.”

The nicest man in the world was her husband. Time for a little seduction. She slid off her shoe (blessed relief) and reached her foot out to slide up his pant leg. Nothing . . . nothing . . . Could a foot grope? If so, her foot was groping into emptiness. There.