“I let myself in,” Melissa says from the foyer, just as Maggie reaches the front hall. Melissa is taking advantage of the night’s chill to wear a half-length mink; below it flashes the sequins and beads of a short, tight dress.

“Oh, you look fabulous,” Maggie says. “Let me take your coat.” Melissa is loath to part with it, but she reluctantly does. “It’ll be right over here,” Maggie assures before disappearing into a room-size hall closet. “Who did that?” she asks, her finger sticking out of the closet, wagging.

“Cavalli. You like?” Melissa does a subdued sashay and runs a hand over her beaded thigh. “You’re looking sexy as well. You send a selfie to Tomás?” Part of being a baseball wife: just enough distraction.

“Not yet.” Maggie pops out of the closet as a knock comes at the door. “Can you get that, Mel? I’ve got to check on something.”

Cynthia and Cecilia smile widely on the front stoop. “Hi!” Cynthia says. Her new red is garish, as is her dress, a low and short tube of sparkly fabric. She hugs Melissa. “It was great to see you this afternoon. Thank you so much for inviting me. Us.”

Like I had a choice, says the voice in Melissa’s head.

“Do you know Cecilia Vásquez? She’s Victor Vásquez’s wife. Have you seen him pitch? He’s a-maze-ing.”

“Isn’t that nice,” Melissa says, flipping through the games, trying to remember any that Hal did not start. She turns to Cecilia, small and pretty and impossibly young to be a colleague. “We haven’t been formally introduced.” Melissa reaches out. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Hello.” In order to shake hands, Cecilia shifts her load from her right hand to her left, and only then does Melissa see: she has brought the child. Melissa cannot hide her surprise at the bundle in the carrier.

“He’s asleep, no problem,” Cecilia says, her accent making itself apparent. “If he gets up I’ll—” she nods to her swollen breast.

“Sure. Well. Come in, come in.”

Melissa shows them through the foyer, eyes scanning desperately for Maggie. Who brings a baby to a lingerie party? The girl is herself too young to understand, of course; perhaps something has been lost in cultural translation. But still.

They step into the living room. “Maybe over there, in that corner?”

“Perfect.” The baby is beautiful, Melissa has to admit, an entirely round face, lips pushed together in a pout. Were her children ever so flawless? They must’ve been. Something about the silky smooth skin seems impossible here in Maggie’s cheese-tower house, even more exotic than Chantelle’s leopard-print thongs.

“Now,” Maggie appears from somewhere, clapping her hands together. “Who wants drinks?”