Anne grins, and her deep dimples flash. “We’re going to party. We’re going to paaaarty,” she chants, cranking her arms around the steering wheel and doing her best seated-hip-hop dance. For a white girl who’s popped out three babies, she’s still got some moves.

New Year’s Eve day, I head to Sea-Tac Airport to collect my kids from their Alaska Airlines flight. Daniel sent the kids back a day early so he and Melinda could attend the gala New Year’s Eve party tonight at his favorite golf country club in Palm Springs. I didn’t have plans tonight, so getting the kids a day early is a treat.

I reach my house in time to see Anne backing out of my driveway. I brake, roll down my window. She does the same from her Audi wagon. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Dropped something off on your doorstep. Check it out and give me a call.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.” She beams, waves, and drives away.

I park in the garage and carry the kids’ luggage into the house, William shouldering his backpack and Jessica’s while Jessica pushes past, empty-handed, freeloader, intent on reaching the TV and her beloved Cartoon Network.

Inside the house, I put the suitcases in the laundry room while William goes to the front door, opens it, and brings a large white envelope to me. “Stellar Travel,” he says, reading the blue logo in the upper left corner.

I open the envelope, and inside there are brochures and computer printouts listing flight itineraries and hotel confirmation.

“What is it, Mom?”

I’m smiling, shaking my head. She did it. Anne booked the trip for the last week of January. “My birthday present.” I grin wider. Anne and I are going to paaaarty.

Chapter Three

Three

Last week of January, the kids are at Daniel’s for the next five days and I’m at the airport, but Anne’s not with me. She’s on the phone.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Anne repeats for what seems like the fiftieth time since calling me minutes ago. “God, Jack, I’m sorry to do this to you at the last moment. I feel horrible.”

My stomach has bottomed out. My mouth is dry, and I can’t seem to swallow to get it wet. “It’s fine,” I say, throat scratchy as reality sets in. Anne’s not going to Hawaii. The trip’s over before it ever began. “If Phil’s sick, there’s nothing you can do.”

“He was up all night, Jack. Sicker than a dog. If he hadn’t passed out, slumped on the toilet, I’d still go, but he’s out cold—”

“I understand, Annie. I do.” But he’s faking it, I think. I know he’s faking it. I just can’t say so. If our friendship suffered over a Cocoa Puffs comment, it wouldn’t benefit from a spousal slight.