Actually, no, there wasn’t, but maybe there ought to have been, so I started to think only to be interrupted by Kate, who said, “Look, I won’t lie. There’s a lot about his life that is attractive. But the answer is ‘No, not for a minute. I’m more certain than ever I married the right man.’ ”

Funny. I didn’t even know that was in question.

No doubt about it. A storm was coming. It was more a matter of when. But that particular afternoon, the Pierrepont Playground was overflowing with moms and nannies and babies and half-day kids. I stood on the fringe, over by the swings, pushing Sam as high as he could go.

A mother I’d just met—Squeaky Voice Mom—and I had been discussing the ominous sky over New Jersey and how the storm appeared to be heading our way. Others must have noticed the mammoth black clouds, the repeated flashes of fractured light. But Squeaky Voice Mom and I seemed to be the only ones worried. I figured the storm would hit within the hour, but that may have been wishful thinking. Squeaky Voice Mom thought sooner, and what followed was the first low rumble of thunder.

Most impressive was the amount of lightning. Squeaky Voice Mom said, “It’s like that laser light show at Epcot. Except at Disney World, you don’t get wet.”

“Wouldn’t know about it.”

“You haven’t been to Disney World?”

“No,” I said, “but it’s been a dream of mine.” Which was true. Kate swore we’d never go there, arguing that it was redundant, since our boys had been weaned on The Lion King and every other Disney extravaganza. We’d either rented or owned every Disney animated movie, and we had more than our share of Disney treasure, the Finding Nemo toothbrush, the Simba blanket. While we weren’t a religious family, the case could be made that for our boys, Disney had been their church.

Squeaky Voice Mom (or Minnie Mouse Mom): “We go every year. Six years running. And we still haven’t seen everything. You really should take them. Take them while they still believe in things.”

I lifted Sam out of the swing, left that corner of the playground, and headed toward a cluster of familiar mothers. Claudia Valentine, Tess Windsor, and Debbie Beebe sat on their regular park bench, sipping large cups of aromatic chai.

“We were just talking about you,” Claudia called out a little too loudly.

I smiled, assuming it to be a good thing.

“We were just saying how nice you look today.”

Normally, I would have appreciated the attention. But not that day. So I waved it off, thanked them. “It’s no big deal,” I said. And then I offered up my idea of a joke: “I bathed.”

“We’re not used to seeing you so put together,” Claudia said. “It’s not your usual style.”