She made a rude noise and focused on melting the sugar in a pair of ramekins. I breathed a small sigh of relief. Kristen was an extremely talented chef. Her restaurant was a rousing success, thanks in part to a spot on the nationally syndicated television show Trock’s Troubles. She’d never once cut off one of her fingers, seared away her eyebrows, or burned down any large structures. Still, there was always a first time, and her cavalier attitude could be interpreted by those unsavvy in the ways of kitchens—say, me—as her not paying enough attention to what she was doing.

“I have to be as big as a car, at least,” she said. “One of those adorable little ones.”

“Mini Cooper?” Though there were probably dozens of small-car manufacturers, it was the only one my brain could summon quickly.

Kristen patted her belly again. “That’s it. Got my own personal Mini Cooper, right here.” She squinted at the ramekins and gave them one last wave of fiery heat. “Hope you’re okay with no fruit garnish tonight.”

I thumped the stool next to me. “Have a seat, O Pregnant One. I would have been okay with eating ice cream out of our own special tub.”

Hitching herself onto the seat, she asked, “What, and mess up our reunion? Not a chance.”

I slid over a spoon and napkin. “It is a reunion, isn’t it? I never thought of it that way.”

“Silly.” Kristen inspected her crème brûlée with a chef’s eye, shaking her head at a flaw invisible to everyone else in the universe. We dug in, and for a few moments there was nothing but the crackle of sugar and the scooping of spoon into custard.

Before she married Scruffy (not his real name) Gronkowski, Kristen had split her time between Chilson and Key West. Her restaurant was named after the Three Seasons it was open: spring, summer, and fall. After she closed down in October, she bade a cheerful good-bye to northern Michigan and skedaddled for the warmth of Florida before the snow fell. Kristen did things flat out or she didn’t do them at all, and she expended every bit of energy she had on the restaurant. Down in Florida, she watched old movies and tended bar and spent a lot of time napping in hammocks.

At least, that was what she used to do. Now that she was married to Scruffy, things had shifted. The Scruff was the producer of Trock’s Troubles, and the son of Trock Farrand (not his real name). Kristen still ran Three Seasons and still spent some of the winter in Key West, but more and more she was traveling with Scruffy and the production crew. Trock himself, large and round and full of exuberant life, had begun hinting that retirement was starting to hover and that the show would need a new face.