There are nearly a dozen voice mail messages waiting for me after I make my coffee in the morning and turn my attention to my desk. The kids won’t be home until two forty-five on the school bus, so I sleepily go through the phone calls and return the ones I can.

Half are business calls—requests for appointments, a question on an invoice, a problem from the furniture restorer in downtown Seattle—and then there are calls from friends and my family wishing me a happy birthday, a voice mail from Jessica singing “Happy Birthday” (why didn’t Daniel have her call me on my cell?), and the friends wanting to know about my vacation: Did I have a good time? Did I come home with a killer tan? Did I buy anything fun? Did I meet anyone interesting on the trip?

The trip. I smile faintly even as I feel a tug inside, a bittersweet yank of emotion. Yes, I had a good time; and yes, I met someone interesting. Someone who lives very far away. Someone I probably won’t ever see again.

I finish listening to the messages and then delete them. For several long minutes, I stare at the phone. I should call Kris and Anne and Nic, but I don’t. I don’t know what to tell them. Because I don’t know what I’m feeling.

I did have fun. Too much fun. Maybe I won’t tell them about Kai. I take a sip of my coffee. Maybe they don’t need to know about him or the romance.

Yet I feel different. I feel better. Better than I have in a long, long time.

But before I can take a second sip of coffee, the phone rings. I recognize the number. Kristine.

“Back in one piece?” Kristine asks as I answer.

I laugh, immediately relax, sink lower in my desk chair. “Yeah. Definitely feel a little jet-lagged, though. It’s only six in the morning there now.”

“Was it as miserable being on your own as you thought it’d be?”

“Not really.” But I wasn’t on my own long.

“So what are your plans today?”

“Work. And then meeting the kids’ school bus.”

“Are you free at noon? We’re planning to take you to lunch for your birthday. We figured we’d better do a lunch party now instead of waiting for a free evening.”

“I can do lunch.”

“Great. The Leschi Café, twelve o’clock.”

“You look rested,” Anne says enviously as we settle into our corner table overlooking the lake. We drop our purses at our feet, and bright-colored gift bags and wrapped presents are stacked in front of me.

“And happy,” Nic adds, leaning forward on her elbows, her chin propped in her hands. “So what happened? Something did.”