When I got there, Debbie was preparing to leave. I asked, “Why so soon?” She shook her head and indicated her chest, where her breast milk had leaked through her blouse. “I guess it’s a sign I better go,” she said. “Too bad,” I said. “Truthfully,” she told me as she slipped on her coat, “I may be getting out just at the right time.” It was an odd thing for her to say, considering she’d spent the afternoon making margaritas for the rest of us.

I arrived late for the same reason I’d missed in recent weeks Debbie’s baby shower, Claudia’s birthday brunch, and book club (Jane Eyre) at Rebecca’s house: work. Long days reviewing grant proposals and seeking out ideal grant recipients.

It had been a hard week. I was still rattled from my lunch with Anna Brody. When Friday finally arrived, I was late leaving the office, tired, and definitely not in a party mood. I went to Claudia’s because—and this is my only complaint about her—if you miss one of her events, she takes it hard. She pouts. She punishes you in small ways. And Claudia had been particularly insistent this time, swearing, “You’ll be glad you did.” “Why?” “There’s someone coming you need to meet.” “Who?” “A writer friend. You’ll see.” “Whom does your friend write for?” “I don’t know. Cosmo, probably.”

Needless to say, by the time I made it to Claudia’s, I was ready for a drink.

The girls were in the back part of the garden floor, which was the Valentines’ family room. I could hear them laughing loudly. Someone was smoking pot, which was rare in our circle. Debbie’s margarita mix was on the dining room table, and I poured myself one, sat down, and drank it fast, wanting a good buzz to come quickly. I carried my second margarita down the hall, stopping to admire the way Claudia had framed the school pictures of her boys, noticing how Otto’s (age nine) permanent teeth had overwhelmed his baby teeth, how his mouth was in transition. I thought of Teddy and how soon this would be happening to him.

I was met in the hallway by Rebecca, who was hurrying to the bathroom. “Hey, Tess’s sister is here. She’s a writer.”

“Ah, the writer. Claudia told me . . .”

“Yeah, well, we were telling her all about you.”

“Really.”

“She writes puff pieces, mostly for The Wall Street Journal.”

“I didn’t know the Journal did puff pieces.”

“Well, it’s their own particular kind of puff. Aren’t they great?” Rebecca indicated the margarita pitcher. “I’ve had three!”

Clearly.