Saturday morning Annabelle got up early and headed for Roscoe Village, a former haven for drug dealers that had been gentrified in the 1990s. Now it was a pretty urban neighborhood with refurbished houses and charming shops that projected a small-town feel. She was meeting the daughter of one of Nana’s former neighbors in her storefront architectural office on Roscoe Street. She’d heard the woman was exceptionally pretty, and she wanted to meet her in person to see if she’d be a match for Heath.

As it turned out, the woman was lovely but nearly as hyperactive as he was, a surefire recipe for disaster. Annabelle considered her a good prospect for a match though, and she decided to keep her eyes open.

A hunger pang reminded her that she hadn’t taken time for breakfast. Since Heath wasn’t picking her up until noon, she made her way across the street to Victory’s Banner, a cheery, pocket-size vegetarian café operated by the followers of one of the Indian spiritual masters. Instead of a musty, incense-scented interior, Victory’s Banner had powder blue walls, sunny yellow banquettes, and chalk white tables that matched the tieback curtains at the windows. She took an empty table and began to order one of her favorites, homemade French toast with peach butter and real maple syrup, only to be distracted by a platter of golden-brown Belgian waffles passing by. She finally settled on apple pecan pancakes.

As she took her first sip of coffee, the door to the restroom at the back opened and a familiar figure emerged. Annabelle’s heart sank. The woman would have been tall even without her high-heeled woven slides. She was broad shouldered and well dressed in crisp white slacks and a short-sleeved coral blouse that complemented her shoulder-length light brown hair. Her makeup was well applied with subtle eye shadow that emphasized her familiar dark eyes.

The café was too small to hide in, and Rosemary Kimble spotted Annabelle right away. She clutched her straw purse more tightly. Her big, broad hands had long, toffee-painted nails and a trio of gold bracelets encircling one wrist. It had been nearly six months since Annabelle had last seen her. Rosemary’s face was thinner, her hips rounder. She approached the table, and Annabelle experienced an all-too-familiar barrage of emotions: anger and betrayal, compassion and repulsion …a painful tenderness.

Rosemary shifted her purse from one hand to the other and spoke in her low, melodious voice. “I just finished breakfast, but…Would you mind some company?”

Yes, I’d mind, Annabelle wanted to say, but she’d only feel guilty afterward, so she tilted her head in the general direction of the opposite chair. Rosemary tucked her purse in her lap and ordered an iced chai, then began fiddling with a bracelet. “I hear through the grapevine that you landed a big client.”

“Grapevine Molly.”

Rosemary gave her a wry smile. “You don’t call, you don’t write. Molly’s my only source of information. She’s been a good friend.”

Unlike Annabelle, who hadn’t. She concentrated on her coffee. Rosemary finally broke the awkward silence. “So how’s Hurricane Kate these days?”