The Silver Swans Nursery Academy was new to Lauren Smith, Andrea Vaughan, and Ronnie Stuckey, but they’d heard it was the best place to send one’s young children in all of Raisin Beach, California, and they felt fortunate that there was a spot for their children this term. They were excited to attend the school’s Welcome Breakfast, an event held every September on the very first day the kids were sent into the classrooms. The breakfast used to be a lavish affair, with a pyramid of donuts, piles of every fruit imaginable, and an ice sculpture of the school’s mascot, an erudite, bespectacled owl sitting on a branch, ostensibly ready to teach the young Silver Swans students all he knew.

But this year was more tempered. There were bagels and a variety of spreads; there were grapes and pineapple and an assortment of juices; there was coffee, the tureens lined up, the paper cups ready, though also accompanied by a sign of a smiling cartoon Planet Earth declaring, Love me! Travel mugs preferred! There was not, however, a man in a chef’s hat cooking omelets to order. Nor were there caterers circulating with bacon-Gruyère bites. It felt excessive to shower everyone with a gluttonous spread after so many had lost their jobs and so many businesses had gone bust.

After Lauren Smith shook sugar packets into her coffee, she came face-to-face with Piper Jovan, the school’s director, who was making a point of greeting each parent. It was hard not to gape at even a dressed-down Piper. The woman’s dark, thick hair spilled down her shoulders. Her eyes were ethereal blue, and her lips were plump, and she had a Marilyn Monroe beauty mark next to her mouth. And that body!

“Wow, the Grand Recession didn’t hurt you any,” Lauren blurted.

Piper blushed mock-bashfully, then looked Lauren up and down. “I don’t think we know each other yet.”

“Lauren. My son is Matthew? Seven months? My husband should be up in a minute. Well, I hope. He works on a TV show? Ketchup? We moved here last year.” Lauren was babbling. She always did when she was nervous.

Then a young man standing just behind Piper tapped her arm and murmured. Lauren studied him closer. “Is this your son?” she asked Piper.

The guy—chubby-cheeked, dark hair neatly combed, wearing a fastidious black oxford buttoned up to his collar—barked with laughter. “I’m her assistant!”

“Oh. Sorry.” Lauren’s gaze bounced from him to Piper. “I’d heard you had a son, Piper, and I just thought . . . anyway, it’s nice to meet you!” She smiled dumbly at the man. “What’s your name?”

“Carson Dillard.” He was still snickering. “And I’m twenty-five. Piper’s son is thirteen. No amount of moisturizer is that good.”