When we first moved to New York, Kate worked for Bruno Schwine at the Foundation for an Ethical Future. When Kate quit to raise our boys, Bruno left to start his own consulting firm, absurdly named Bruno Schwine Associates, even though he was the only employee. At the time Kate had scolded Bruno because he’d gone to work for the enemy, as a freelance adviser to that biotech behemoth, the Monsanto Corporation.

“He may have some ideas,” she said carefully. “Maybe even a job offer.”

“Bruno Schwine?” I snorted. “Fine, knock yourself out!”

KATE

ALL MORNING I WORRIED ABOUT WHAT TO WEAR. I TRIED THE GRAY PANTSUIT, THE beige silk shirt, and the pearl earrings; I tried the tan slacks, the light blue blouse, and my tiny teacup earrings; I tried the faded jeans, the striped pink sweater, and no earrings. After trying nearly every conceivable combination of my best and favorite clothes, I decided to start over from scratch. I was naked when the phone rang.

Part of me hoped it was Bruno Schwine calling to cancel, since this little decision of what to wear was proving too big for me. It wasn’t that I was excessively vain; but I knew my choice of clothes would say a great deal about my intentions, and I didn’t know what mine were. Was I a mother at this lunch, or a future employee, or was I, quite simply, an old friend meeting to talk about old times?

Picking up the phone, I heard static. It was a bad connection.

“Kate?”

“Yes?”

It was someone calling from a cell phone.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Anna. Anna Brody.”

Anna Brody who had left a message the week before, Anna Brody whose number I couldn’t read because my husband had doodled on the back of the envelope where I’d written it, Anna Brody who wasn’t listed in the Manhattan phone book, the Brooklyn phone book, or with directory assistance. “Oh,” I said, “I’ve been wanting to call you.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, I can explain. See, one of my kids scribbled on the piece of paper where I’d wrote your number.” Wrote? “I mean written.”

“Is this a bad time?”

I’m naked, I’m late, and you’re not Bruno Schwine calling to cancel. “Yes,” I said. “It kind of is.”

“I’m sorry to keep calling . . .”

“No, no, it’s no bother.”

“I just wanted to ask you something about the neighborhood.”

“Go ahead,” I said as I stepped into my underwear.

“Philip’s worried . . .”

Philip, I decided, must be her husband.

“He’s worried I’ll be bored.”

“When my Teddy says he’s bored, I tell him he’s not bored. He’s boring.”

“You do not.”

“No, but I will when he gets older, because it’s what I believe. Or what I’ve been told to believe.”

She laughed.

“We absolutely love it here,” I told her. “The people are nice. It’s beautiful. You can walk pretty much everywhere. Best part is even if one of your distant relatives dies, your neighbors will bring you homemade soups, cookies, and trays of lasagna. You won’t have to cook for weeks. And since you have money . . .”