She nodded toward a dish at the end of the table and then took a long sip of her wine. “Tony made a charcuterie board. He carved the serrano ham himself from a pig leg he had imported from Italy.” She pushed her sunglasses up, splaying her highlighted hair.

A trained chef, Tony had gone to culinary school and worked as a sous chef for a few years before he met Melissa. They met when she had dinner at Michelin-starred Alinea with some work colleagues, and their tab was high enough to be invited to tour the kitchen. After the introduction, she invited him to tour her bedroom.

Two years later, they were married. He bounced from restaurant to restaurant until they had kids, when they decided he would stay home and she would continue to work. Yet his passion for cooking never waned; he clearly missed having a creative endeavor. Something I understood all too well.

“Once again, you’ve earned your nickname of Fancypants. Next time I’m just putting my name on whatever you bring.” I glanced around, spotted a sweating aluminum bucket of wine, and poured myself a glass of sauvignon blanc. As I took a sip, I surveyed the crowd. Most of the husbands were standing in a semicircle, gesturing toward the grills as though they were all part of an elite force of charred meat experts, except only Kevin Simpson was actually doing any work. He held the tongs in the air and clicked them together every ten seconds, like he was communicating in Morse code. As Mark approached the group, their faces perked up, no doubt ready to ask him about a discount on their cell phone bills. The older residents of the neighborhood sat on folding lawn chairs in the street, also in a semicircle. I spotted Jess inside her house, gathering things in the kitchen.

“Where’s Liz?” I said. “Hopefully she’s feeling better.”

Melissa gave a shrug, her turquoise Kendra Scott earrings brushing against her cheeks. “Stalling, if she’s smart.”

I heard Emily screaming from across the street and saw that she had fallen down on the sidewalk and was holding her knee. I waited a moment to see if she would shake it off and get up, but when she didn’t, I walked over. A steady stream of blood poured from her leg.

I crouched forward. “Oh, honey. What happened?”

“I tripped over my scooter.” Tears ran down her dirt-streaked face as she stared at the cut. I put my hand over it to stop the bleeding, kneeling on the rough sidewalk awkwardly in my cutoff jean shorts. I glanced around, again looking for Liz. As a nurse, she usually was the first to arrive when any of our kids got hurt, but I didn’t see her.