On Saturdays they met for breakfast at the Ivy Garden, a favorite place off the plaza where tables spilled out of garden-inspired rooms into the garden itself. A fantastic spreading oak tree grew like something from a fairy tale right in the center of the space, shading the tables in daytime and providing a canopy of twinkling lights at night.

“I need the alcohol,” Franny said, fussing with the bright yellow bandana he wore twisted at the open throat of his purple Ralph Lauren polo shirt (collar turned up, of course). The bandana matched the little polo pony embroidered on the chest. “I’m still shaking from last night. Are you all right? I knew that woman was a bitch, but MY GOD! She’s bat-shit crazy!”

A pair of older ladies at the next table looked over from their French toast. Franny rolled his eyes at them.

“I’m worried about Tommy,” Anne said.

“Can you imagine having that F-U-C-K-I-N-G C-U-N-T for a mother?”

“Kind of.”

“Your mother was a saint.”

“But my father is Dick.”

“Your father is a dick, but he’s not crazy,” Franny said. “I was stunned speechless last night, and that hasn’t happened since . . . ever. Thank God for Vince!”

Vince. His new best friend.

“Where is he?” he asked. “Did he take you home last night? Did you sleep with him?”

Anne blushed and ducked her head.

“Oh my God, you DID!” he exclaimed, delighted. “You vixen! I’m so proud of you!”

“Stop!” she hissed, swatting at him with her napkin. “Stop it!”

“Tell all!”

“I’m telling nothing. We are in a public place and I teach the fifth grade. And I wouldn’t tell you anyway, because I’m not that kind of girl.”

“Well, apparently you are.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, eyes bright. “So what was it like? Sweet and romantic or hot and wild with animal passion?”

“It was none of your business,” she said bluntly.

“This is very interesting,” he said. “You haven’t slept with a man since Jimmy Carter was president.”

“That is categorically untrue. It was the first Reagan administration—and that wasn’t that long ago.”

“So what now? Where is he? Did he spend the night?”

“He’s working, and this part of our conversation is over,” Anne declared as the waitress returned with their drinks.

“I’ll have the lemon blueberry ricotta pancakes,” Franny said, handing his menu over. “And so will my friend. She worked up a big appetite last night.”

Anne let that one go. If she didn’t rise to the bait, he would get bored.

He raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to ya, Anne Marie. That’s all’s I’m sayin’.”

“Good. Then the rest of the meal will be pleasantly quiet,” Anne said, picking a cornbread minimuffin from the basket on the table.