“I’ve heard that flu is going around,” Tim Randolph said. “We bought some kid DVDs about a month ago and we’ve watched them so much we can say the words with the characters. I’ll put a pile together and drop them by their house tomorrow.”

“Half the school is out with the flu,” Anna Jane Butler told Christina. “It’s not a huge problem. We go on recess for Christmas at the end of next week.”

“Here,” Alison Price said as she dug around in her enormous leather bag. “I just finished this book and it’s fabulous! Fast plot, gorgeous men, and plenty of steam. When you take Dora the groceries, drop this off for Louise.”

When she returned to her Jeep, Christina scarcely noticed the cold air. The brightly lit displays of reindeer and snowmen and Santas in people’s yards cheered her, and she was warmed all through from seeing so many generous friends. She hoped someday she’d have a child with the flu. A short-lived, mild flu, of course. And a husband who had the flu, too. She could imagine Wink as her child, but she couldn’t fit Andy into the husband slot.

She carried the two bags of goodies to Louise’s front porch and talked to her on her cell as she drove home. (She knew she shouldn’t talk and drive, but her cell synced to her radio so she could drive with both hands.) She told Louise about the DVDs from Tim Randolph and the book from Alison Price and the lasagna Susan Waters would bring over the next day.

“Gosh, this is so nice it makes me want to cry,” Louise said. “And I haven’t even asked you how your day was.”

Christina didn’t want to download all her worries on Louise, not tonight when Louise had a house full of sick people. “Let’s just say it was complicated. I’ll give you the details when we can get together for a glass of wine. Or maybe a few shots of tequila.”

They laughed together, said goodbye, and Christina clicked off. Seeing her friends in the grocery store had lifted her mood, and she’d bought herself an entire box of Ferrero Rocher (she wouldn’t eat them all tonight) and some gourmet cat treats for Mittens. She shed her raincoat and wool cap and shoes at the front door, pulled on her pajamas and cozy robe, set the half-empty cup of hot chocolate in the sink, and her box of chocolates on the sofa. Before she sat down, she had to do one more thing.

“Here, Mittens,” she said in her sweetest voice. “I brought you a present.”