For reasons that I hadn’t been able to figure out, Kristen and Holly—who’d been one year apart in high school—had never gotten along. They weren’t exactly enemies, but certainly not friends. I’d given up long ago on ever reconciling them to each other. Sometimes people just didn’t get along and there was no point in trying to force things.

“Well,” I said, “you did go to a lot of trouble for tonight, with less than a twenty-four-hour notice. Thank you.”

In addition to the food, which was laid out across three long white-linened tables, there were balloons and streamers and laser-printed letters taped over the tables, one each to a full sheet of paper, that read, From Minnie to my student loans: Good-bye forever!

Kristen smiled. The sharklike version. “Worked out great for me. My staff is back, and after that comment from Trock last fall, I told them they had to work on appetizers.”

That didn’t explain the time spent on the celebratory decorations, but Kristen had never been good at accepting thanks. “What comment?” I couldn’t imagine that Trock, her loving father-in-law, had ever said anything negative about Three Seasons. He’d welcomed Kristen into the family with open arms that were both metaphoric and very real.

She glared at a plate of something on the middle table. “Trock said it wouldn’t hurt to add more sugar to the balsamic glaze we use on the antipasto skewers. I can’t let a comment like that go unanswered.”

I could have. Easily. But then I wasn’t a chef at a high-end restaurant. There was nowhere I wanted to go with this subject, so I diverted. “Have you thought any more about staying out of the kitchen until the baby is born?” I asked, more for form’s sake than anything else, because I knew full well that she’d work until she physically couldn’t. Unfortunately, I’d asked my question during one of those odd conversational lulls that happen, even in large groups, and everyone turned.

“You’re still working?” my aunt Frances asked.

“Seriously?” Pam Fazio stared at Kristen. “Why on earth aren’t you letting your husband wait on you hand and foot?”

Kristen calmly looked from one to the other. “Like I said the other day. I’m thinking about it.”

“Are you nuts?” Holly asked.

Uh-oh, I thought. Kristen would tolerate pregnancy questions from my aunt and from Pam and from almost anyone who wasn’t Holly. My best friend’s eyes narrowed as she turned on my coworker. Quickly, before this situation could escalate, I jumped in to prevent the fray. “Do any of you know John Pinnock?”

Kristen eyed me. We’d been best friends for decades and she knew exactly what I’d done. Half smiling, she said, “No. Why?”