Even in winter, Bayberry Preschool was that perfect combination of artsy fartsy and impeccably groomed landscaping that kept the students happy while allowing their parents to justify the exorbitant tuition they paid. Snow-covered boxwood sheared in the shape of ducks edged the walkway to the Cape Cod-shingled building. Someone had whimsically tied camel-and-red plaid scarves, possibly real Burberry, around their topiary necks and rested child-sized metal snow shovels with red handles against their topiary bodies.

“You quack me up,” I said as I boot-shuffled past the ducks. My breath fogged out in front of me, creating a flimsy pocket of warmth.

Any day now, my bitch of a boss Kate Stone would hire a chainsaw-wielding ice sculptor, like she did every year, to turn a massive block of ice into a perky penguin or polar bear, while our students looked on. The kids would be moderately impressed by the ice sculpture. Mostly they’d beg for a turn with the chainsaw.

Polly was standing in the hallway, staring at our closed classroom door. A fringed burgundy blanket-like poncho skimmed her seven-month baby bump. Her black maternity leggings were tucked into cozy gray slip-on shearling ankle boots with buttons on the sides. Strands of silver sparkled like tinsel in her auburn hair, and her freckles popped against her pink cheeks. She looked like a ripe pomegranate, only cuter.

If I ever managed to get pregnant, I’d probably end up looking slightly cuter than a sumo wrestler. A flash of envy came out of nowhere and caught me by surprise. I liked Polly. I was happy for her. But I wanted what Polly had. To be pregnant, even pseudo-sumo wrestler pregnant. Unfortunately, my biological clock was barely ticking anymore, so it probably wasn’t going to happen.

I slid out of my long black puffy down-filled coat, which John had recently found for me in one of the boxes I’d been getting around to unpacking.

“You beat me,” I said. “Imagine that.”

Polly ignored my feeble attempt at late-to-work humor and kept staring. A tiny pink candy conversation heart was attached to the door with clear plastic tape at grown-up eye level. I squinted, pulled my reading glasses out of my bag so I could actually read it:

CRAZY 4 U

“Ooh,” I said. “Looks like you’ve got a secret admirer, as opposed to your usual bevy of not-so-secret ones.”