Nearly a decade ago she had promised Caroline a second screenplay. It was the reason for this annual lunch; every year, the Friday after Labor Day, they met to discuss her progress. She hadn’t any new screenplay to deliver, but she had sent five pages of notes and ideas about Queen Victoria’s daughter Alice, who breastfed her child against her mother’s wishes only to have her infant daughter reject her milk and then, after securing a wet nurse, decided to breastfeed the wet nurse’s son. Up until Sarah had sent the e-mail, the fragments of this story lived only in a document on her laptop entitled “third project,” as if Sarah were so entirely uncommitted to Queen Victoria’s forward-thinking and emotionally complicated daughter that she couldn’t even bother with a working title. Regardless of how polished or unpolished those pages were, a period film would be too expensive to produce even if she could call in some final favors with her stylist friend or get the wardrobe sponsored. She knew it was a nonstarter and yet somehow she’d sent it anyway.

Sarah had made one film, over twenty-five years ago. It had been lauded as strange and beautiful. She’d made this film quickly and cheaply, never imagining its success and certainly not imagining that it would be the best thing she’d ever do. She’d spent her youth writing stories and had made this one film out of a desire to escape and to conjure, but she couldn’t do either anymore.

To use one’s imagination for art or even for leisure: this seemed like the world’s greatest luxury.

Here was the thing she couldn’t get used to: she had only one story now. It was obvious to everyone who knew her.

She closed her eyes and tried to let these thoughts roll by, to shift her focus to something good. She’d felt real and true excitement a couple of months ago, hearing Kiki’s voice for the first time in eight years. Her old friend had left a voice message, then e-mailed within the hour. Both times she said she realized it had been years since they’d spoken, but she just had to tell Sarah and Matthew about the new arrival.

We had a baby, Kiki had written. A girl. I hope I’m not wrong in thinking you’d want to know.

Sarah had called back. She left her own voice mail, then wrote an e-mail asking for pictures. Of course of course of course. Of course I want to know. THANK YOU. I’m thrilled for you. And I can’t wait to hear everything.

Kiki wrote back with the weekend invitation. Make it a long weekend, she wrote. Stay till Monday if you can. She suggested, to Sarah’s relief, they dispense with the back-and-forth and just catch up in person. She sent the address and a P.S.