The others were four women on the faculty, all over forty, clear-eyed and sensibly dressed. The leaves all over Helen’s lawn and sidewalk crackled and scuffed loudly as they made their way to the door. They came in with much exclaiming and hugs, and each shook my hand heartily, with warm, steady looks into my eyes. I found myself oddly moved. Their names were Nancy, Laura, Judith, and Joanna. “Between the five of us we’ve logged about a hundred teaching years,” said Helen.

“I beg to differ, Helen,” said Nancy, laughing as she shrugged out of her dun-colored barn jacket. “It’s more like a hundred and fifty.” Everyone laughed, and we walked into the living room together.

There was a beautiful spread on the table—shrimp and cheese sticks and all sorts of tasty snacky things and a bright fire in the fireplace. We settled ourselves onto the sofa and started right in.

“So, Jana, Helen tells me that you used to live in Cleveland. Are you from there?” said Judith, her mouth full of shrimp.

“No. I moved out there after college. Actually, I grew up not far from here. Just a couple of towns over, in Darien.”

Judith raised her eyebrows slightly. “Mmm. And did you go to school near here, too?”

“I went to Smith. Class of ’74.”

Laura shrieked a bit at this. “Hey. I was class of ’69.” We grinned briefly, but as is usual after these kinds of conversations, there wasn’t much more to say. But we didn’t need an alma mater in common to feel comfortable. Sitting around eating with a bunch of liberal-minded women about my age, who’d lived on the East Coast most of their lives: we just fit together. Laughed at the same jokes; remembered the same things; valued the same things. I sat, a glass of wine in my hand, looking at my new friends. They filled me in on every little detail they could think of about the school. Who was sleeping with whom, who was infatuated with whom; teachers to avoid; students who were stupid (Max, the boy who’d made the snide remark about “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” was, as I suspected, an alumni legacy liked only by some equally cocky boys and a few of the dimmer girls from neighboring campuses); students who were smart. I didn’t say much, letting the talk wash pleasurably over me. But as the afternoon wound down, I did venture this: “What’s the deal with Jerome Washington? Is he attached?”

The four of them exchanged quick looks, then laughed. “Why do you ask?” said Helen.

“Just curious.” I had my first moment of defensiveness, which I tried to cover with a joke. “You know how us aging divorcees are.”