“Oh my god!” Cynthia cries. She is not watching Chantelle’s rainbow of silks or still gossiping about Jason but staring at Cecilia in the corner, the girl’s shirtdress unbuttoned, her milk-swollen breast uncovered. Cynthia’s eyes are like dinner plates, her mouth a wide-open grin. “They’re huge!”

The whole room turns to look at Cecilia, her baby cradled in her arms. Her exposed breast is giant, taut with milk, a latte color with a rose-pink areola. Instantly, the hearsay about Goodyear is forgotten, Liana’s vulnerability ignored, Tonya’s roving eye forgiven. In fact, for a moment, their interest in men slides right off the edge of their planet: this is something else, something better.

With their eyes on Cecilia, the wives know that nothing in Chantelle’s trunk will improve the young mother. She is, at this moment, perfect. The baseball wives feel awe at this, but also, and mostly, regret: for having zoomed by this chapter, for having avoided it completely, for having surgically replicated it in a way that will never feel quite right. There are different kinds of beauty, and this—

“What?” Melissa’s hiss interrupts the group reverie. Her words, dulled by three Desert Suns, are less crisp, less clipped than usual. “You’ve never seen a woman breastfeed before?” She has, and has forgotten it, the urgency and beauty of the act buried under everything else that has since come her way. She turns to Chantelle. “Chantelle, please continue.”

As the clerk drapes a rainbow of thongs across her forearm, the doorbell rings. “Another friend,” Melissa says, raising her eyebrows at Maggie. “Wonderful.”

Maggie shuffles into the front hall, returning with Eliza Summers and another woman. While the baseball wives are all wearing strappy dresses, ruffles and ribbons, this woman is in a plain pink suit coat and matching skirt. Melissa thinks she looks familiar but cannot place her.

“This is my friend,” Eliza says. “Candice.”

They sit down with the group. More thongs have appeared on Chantelle’s arm, the bright laces now stretching nearly up to her shoulder. “Candice, what do you do?” Maggie asks.

Melissa watches her carefully, hunting for a clue. Where is this woman from?

“I work in government.”

And with that, the pieces click into place: I want Candy!

Melissa stands, tells Chantelle to order her two of the thongs in cranberry, and asks Eliza to help her get some wine for their new friend. In the far corner of the room, kitchen sink running to cover their whispers, the inquiry begins: “You brought her here?”

“Why not? She wants to see the offerings.”

“She wants to hit us up for money. Arizona is off-limits.” The whiskey makes her tongue thick.

“This is not a campaign stop. I swear.” Eliza raises her right hand. The scar from last year’s car-battery burn is a pink shadow across her palm. “She wants to buy something for her girlfriend.”

“What! She’s gay? Oh, you’re despicable.”