Gosh, I couldn’t remember when I’d felt so relaxed. I’d have to tell Caro all about this, and we could come here the two of us sometime. But for now, it was so special, being here with my sweet little girl. Of course, she was forty-three. I knew that. When she turned up at my door Saturday night, crying, it had felt like she was little again. I made her a hot toddy, listened as she talked tangles about work and Oliver and Brianna, then tucked her into bed. Being Juliet’s mother was the one place where I always knew what I was doing.

Being sent to this fancy-pants hotel with Sadie all cheerful and efficient . . . that was just extra.

Juliet and I had been scrubbed and massaged and had breathed in all sorts of lovely aromatherapy mists and whatnot. The sauna, the Jacuzzi, the steam room, a bowl of fruit, and glasses of delicious cucumber water. I felt warm and smooth and smelled like oranges.

Then we got back to the room, and there were flowers and champagne from Sadie!

It was a real nice surprise, don’t you know. Real nice.

“Sadie is my absolute favorite sister,” Juliet said, then giggled. My favorite sound in the world was my girls laughing, and boy, Juliet needed it.

“She’s my favorite second child,” I said, and we laughed together. “I hope she won’t have to sell her apartment to afford this.”

“Oh, I’ll pay her back.”

“No, you won’t, Juliet Elizabeth. You let your sister do this nice thing for you. Don’t take that away from her.”

“You’re right, Mom. As usual.”

We were both wearing fluffy white robes and comfy slippers, sitting under the covers in the enormous king-size bed. That champagne went down nicely.

“So what’s going on, honey?” I asked, turning to look at her. “You weren’t making a whole lot of sense last night.”

“I don’t know, Mom. That’s the problem. I have no idea. It’s like all the rules have changed, and no one told me. I was playing one game, and I was winning, and now I’m not.”

“Do you mean work?”

“Yes. There’s this associate named Arwen—you met her at the party, and that time you came to the office last fall?” I nodded. “She’s . . . there’s absolutely nothing wrong with her. She’s a good architect. She’s good with people. She’s ambitious and smart. But you’d think she was the first woman architect ever. Vanity Fair is doing a profile on her. She’s up for the Moira Gemmill Prize, Mom!”

I gathered that was something real prestigious, and made a sympathetic noise.