After much texting to a group that grew to include more than twenty people, my impromptu celebration party wound up being held in the main dining room of Three Seasons. Kristen’s formal opening wasn’t for another week, and at one point in the text circle, location proposals had gone from the reasonable suggestion of our house to the sort of reasonable suggestion of the bowling alley, to the ludicrous suggestion of the city’s pavilion.

The pavilion suggestion had been from Ash, who apparently thought standing around in thirty-nine-degree weather would be fun, and that was when Kristen ended the conversation.

Kristen: 3 Seasons. 7 pm.

Holly: We can’t do that—too much imposition.

Barb: Generous, but we’ll find another place.

Kristen: 3 Seasons. 7 pm.

Tom: What about the Round Table

Pam: If I do a little cleaning, there’s a room in the back of my store we could use.

Josh: How about one of the community rooms at the library?

Kristen: 3 Seasons. 7 pm. Anyone who mentions another location will be banned from the restaurant for life.

Kristen (again): And also will be banned from babysitting privileges.

Kristen (again): Forever.

Thus, at seven o’clock, nearly all my Chilson friends and colleagues were gathering together in Three Seasons. The building itself was a renovated former cottage of a Chicago-based family. “Cottage” being a loose term, of course. To me, a cottage was cute and bungalow-ish, with one bathroom and everyone was okay with that, because everyone was in the lake most of the time anyway. But back a hundred years or so, to some people the term “cottage” had apparently meant seven bedrooms, multiple bathrooms, formal and informal dining rooms, a morning room, a parlor, and servant quarters in the attic.

Kristen had added a new kitchen and a new entrance, but other than that, she’d done mostly cosmetic work to the interior. Tonight we were in what had been the library—how appropriate!—with a spread of hors d’oeuvres conjured up from nowhere.

My coworker Holly glanced through the front windows. “Are you sure this is going to work?” she asked. “With all the cars out there, people are going to think the restaurant is open.”

Kristen folded her hands on top of her belly. “Sign says we’re closed. Door is locked. We’re good.”

My coworker didn’t look convinced. “Maybe we should tape up a Private Party sign.”

Kristen shrugged. “Have at it. Paper and tape is in my office, somewhere.”

“Oh, good,” Holly said, sighing in relief, and scurried off.

“I could have gone to the effort of taping up a Private Party sign,” Kristen said, watching her go, “but it didn’t seem worth it. Not sure why she needs to fix something that doesn’t need fixing.”