“I’m not wrong.”

“Yes, you are. Case in point . . .” That was when he told me he’d met Anna Brody.

“She was at the party?”

“She came at the end.”

“And you talked to her?”

“Briefly. I spent more time with the daughter, though.”

“What’d you think?”

“Of the daughter? Well, she’s maybe the cutest, most adorable girl in all the world.”

“Figures.”

“But Anna Brody? No thanks.”

I waited for him to explain.

Basically, Tim said she seemed nice enough and that she was definitely unusual-looking, but she wasn’t as advertised. She was all bones and hard edges. Something about her unfortunate profile. I think I liked best what he said about me. That I was much more beautiful. That I was in rarefied company, and the way he saw it, Anna Brody was not in that company. Then he said, “I was expecting someone breathtaking. But you know what she is?”

“Tell me.”

“She’s just rich.”

The boys called from the bathroom that they wanted bubbles. Tim left the room to oblige them, and when he was far enough away, I said so he couldn’t hear: “Okay, then. You’re forgiven.”

I don’t remember why, maybe I wanted a change, but the next day I decided to walk home up Hicks Street instead of Henry. The corner of Montague and Hicks is often windy, but that day the wind was so strong it felt as if I were about to be swept up myself, which was why it took both hands to hold my hat on my head, and why I turned to walk backward, which was why I happened to see in a window of the Heights Café that Anna Brody was waving at me. Now that she had my attention, she gestured for me to come inside.

By the way, Tim had been wrong about Anna. She was even more beautiful than I remembered. The only conclusion I could draw was that Tim didn’t have very good taste.

Anyway, she met me near the front door.

“Look, I’d love to talk,” I said. “But my boys are waiting . . .”

“Please,” Anna begged, “you have to save me.”

I remember thinking, Oh, right, as if Anna Brody needs saving. I was about to ask, “Save you from what?” when she pulled me toward the back of the restaurant to a table of well-dressed women, all midmeal.

“Ladies, I trust you know Kate.”

None of them did. But they went around the room and introduced themselves. Lynn Auchindale. Valerie Snelling. Pamela Wyeth-Bacon. The last woman, with the clenched jaw, smiled a fierce, cold smile and said, “And I’m Abigail Hosford.”

Oops. Her call was one I probably should’ve returned. I had expected someone much older. Abigail Hosford may have been all of thirty.

Anna slipped on her coat and said, “Kate and I have a previously scheduled engagement. Nice to meet you girls, thanks.” The ladies glared at me, clearly blaming me for breaking up their party. Anna left quickly, and I trailed after. Outside, Anna said, “I owe you.”