“It’s Santa, honey,” I said. Actually, I was pretty sure the guy behind the fake white beard was Randal Collins, the assistant fire chief, but to DJ, he was a strange man in a red fat suit. “Don’t you want to see Santa?”

“No. NO!” he screamed, and twisted away.

“He doesn’t want to, Mommy.” Daisy, two minutes older than her brother, was fierce in his defense.

It took almost three minutes of coaxing and the promise of a cookie when we were through to settle my children onto Santa’s lap. Even so, DJ fussed until I hauled myself onto the truck, conscious of all the mothers waiting in line with their perfectly behaved children. I squeezed into the frame, grabbing Santa’s knee for balance.

“Ho ho ho,” Randal said.

“Smile!” commanded the elf.

Years from now, I knew, we’d look back on the pictures of Daisy scowling and DJ bawling on Santa’s lap, and think, How cute. How precious. How hilarious. But it wasn’t funny as I climbed down, murmuring apologies to the other parents in line.

“Meg? Meg! Over here!”

I looked around, my face hot. There. By the new ambulance. Sallie Gardiner Moffat and her older sister, Belle. Sallie and I had been on pep committee and homecoming court together. She was a buyer now for Simply Southern, an upscale women’s boutique in a restored Victorian between Connie’s Cupcake Confections and Bunyan Hardware.

She waved. “Meg! How are you? It’s so great to see you! I barely recognized you.”

Sallie looked exactly the same, like the cheerleader she’d been in high school, like she could climb to the top of the pyramid and backflip off: ponytail hair, full face of makeup, coordinated outfit.

I finished buckling Daisy into the stroller and handed DJ his blanket. “Hi, Sallie. Hey, Belle. We were just visiting Santa.”

“Bless your heart,” Belle said.

Belle was a mommy, too, but she looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine or one of Sallie’s display windows. Highlights, Botox, mascara, and manicure. I could almost hear Jo snort. Here’s your Southern Woman card.

I tugged on my top and smiled at her. “Where are your kids today?”

“Oh, Harper has a soccer game. Have you seen five-year-olds play soccer?” Belle shuddered delicately. “Running up and down the field like a giant amoeba. No idea of position at all. Incredibly boring. So George took them.”

“Oh. Well, that’s . . . That’s good.”

She raised a slim shoulder in a shrug. “I suppose. Children need sports, right? Physical activity. Harper has soccer and ballet. And tae kwon do, of course. I signed up both children as soon as they turned three. Yours are almost old enough.”

“I don’t think . . . Our pediatrician says at this age they get most of their activity from play.”

“They still need structure.”

“They go to preschool,” I said. “First Methodist, two mornings a week.”

“Harper and Logan are at Sterling Academy.” Belle smiled faintly. “It’s not for everyone, of course.”