“Yeah, it was great. Very exciting. Great part. The show was shooting in New York, and since we’d always talked about moving back, we decided—what the hell—to just go for it, to sell our house and come back East. It all happened really quickly.”

“Wow. So here you are.”

“Yes. Here we are in this strangely relaxing, not-so-pretty spot.” Kiki looked up into the tall tree shading them both.

“So what’s the part? What’s the show?”

“The show isn’t happening.”

“Oh.” Sarah was careful not to sound too crushed. “I’m sorry. What a bummer.”

“Yep.” Kiki nodded. “But”—she kissed the top of Sylvie’s head—“that’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

Sarah heard the screen door open and close; she could hear the music in the kitchen had been changed to electronica, the volume turned up. “Do you always have a lot of people around?”

“Do I—?” Kiki interrupted herself, and Sarah could tell she was annoyed. “Yes, I guess I do.”

“I mean—”

“It’s one night,” Kiki said quietly, as the door opened again. “We’ll have a good time.”

Holding the screen door open with her hip, Heather balanced a platter of cheeses and green olives in one hand, and a bottle of wine and an opener in the other. Sarah leaped up to help, a touch more warmly inclined toward Heather after having criticized her to Kiki. Sarah took the wine and the opener, glad it wasn’t a twist top, grateful for something to handle.

After Heather arranged the snacks and darted inside the house again, Kiki made a silent face of excitement—Sylvie had fallen asleep—and Kiki inched herself off the hammock and onto her feet, in what looked like an exaggerated pantomime of trying not to wake a sleeping baby. I’ll be right back, she mouthed.

Sarah had logged plenty of hours in the middle of the night and in darkened daytime rooms, and even though it had been nearly twenty-five years since that relatively short time in her life, she knew it was too late to be putting a baby down for a nap. Kiki was going inside to tell Heather something, and this was fine but not fine. It didn’t feel fine at all.

“Is this her bedtime?” Sarah asked, and Kiki shushed her loudly, shushed her in a way that produced a surge of unwanted anger—fury even—for wasn’t it a bit hypocritical to shush her so loudly? And why should they have to be so quiet? Why? When it wasn’t even dusk—too early for a bedtime!—and when Sylvie obviously was or wasn’t going to wake up but wouldn’t be bothered by noise—not so long as she was conked out on breast milk, her mouth still attached to her mother’s nipple.