“I’m sure,” I say, feeling her worry, seeing it in her face. Anne has a great face, a heart-shaped face, strong eyebrows, and thick blond hair that she can’t keep her hands out of. She’s probably dragging her hand through her hair as we speak, creating wild, worried waves, while my hair is pulled back now in a sleek, hopefully sophisticated ponytail. My red hair’s naturally curly, but I blow it out and then flat-iron it for good measure. And maybe that’s the best way to describe us—by our hair. Anne’s warm, relaxed, and outgoing, while I’m always trying for a cool and calm look I don’t feel.

Anne and I met years ago at a hospital fund-raiser. Daniel was on the board—he’s big money here in Seattle and sits on every important board—and Anne’s surgeon husband, Philip, was speaking at the Virginia Mason hospital fund-raiser, and we were all seated together. Our husbands hit it off first—I actually thought Anne was a little too into the whole natural mother thing that night (she’d brought her baby to a black-tie event), but in the end, Anne and I became tight friends and our husbands ended up seeing each other only on the golf course.

But that’s to be expected.

Men don’t talk. Won’t share feelings. Generally won’t pick up the phone.

It’s the women who knit families, communities, together. It’s the women who sustain the ties. And it’s not always easy, not a pressure women need, but there it is.

“I’ll call you after I check in,” I promise, tugging on my ponytail now, stomach in knots. “You go take care of Phil and the kids.”

The phone call from Anne saying she can’t make it is a very bad surprise.

Happily, my next surprise is good. I’ve been bumped to first class. I may be traveling alone, but I’m going in style.

I’ve an aisle seat in row three, and as I slide my carry-on bag beneath my seat, the flight attendant arrives to take my coat. “Would you like a glass of champagne or a mai tai?” she asks, slipping a hanger inside my coat.

Alcohol at eight in the morning? I’m about to say no and then immediately wonder, Why not? Why can’t I have a glass of bubbly? This trip isn’t a death sentence. I’m not going to jail. I’m going to Hawaii.

“Champagne, please,” I answer, leaning back in my wide leather seat and crossing my legs. It was brutal rushing to the airport without coffee in the pitch black of morning—that early alarm is always so jarring—but now I’m beginning to feel human.