“Hush up and hug me,” I told her.

“I will not,” Bea said. “You’re not a hero home from war, you’re a—”

If she finished that thought, I didn’t hear it, because Gaz sped over and wrapped his arms around me so hard that my ears popped. He pushed a pastry box into my hand.

“Crumpets,” he said. “It’s a traditional English housewarming gift.”

“It is not,” Cilla huffed.

“It could be,” he said. “If you’d open yourself up to it.”

Cilla sighed. “If you’re trying to use her to win an argument, Garamond, at least tell her,” she said, then turned to me. “I told him they were a bit chewy and he didn’t believe me.”

“Master of curries; servant of baking,” Bea said.

“Not half,” Gaz said defensively. “I’m just a perfectionist. Unfortunately, so is my wife.”

“I don’t remember you ever baking before,” I said, looping my arm through his, delighting in his familiar shock of red hair and the traces of beard threatening to take root on his cheeks.

“I need a break from my savory cooking,” he said. “It’s ruining restaurant cuisine for me.”

Cilla suppressed a smirk. “His five-star palate is a curse.”

“Oh, get off it, so we can get on with it,” Bea said, snatching a manila envelope from Cilla and ripping it open. An old skeleton key tied to a ribbon plopped into her hand with a satisfying thud.

“That’s the first thing we’ll change,” Bea said, marching to the door. “Any idiot can pick one of these locks.”

She jammed it into the keyhole and wiggled. It wouldn’t turn. Gaz hurried over to help, leaving Cilla and me to circle each other. She didn’t seem angry, but my five-foot firebrand of a friend was holding herself unusually reserved, so I kept my arms to myself.

“You look terrific,” I said. “I love your hair like that.”

She touched her new side-swept bangs. “I felt a bit cliché going blond, but they say it’s more fun, and I needed fun.”

Gaz pushed open the door with a holler of triumph.

“Get in here, you lot,” he called.

Cilla and I started up the steps, but the crunch of tires stopped me. I turned around to see a coupe I didn’t recognize creep past the arch toward the entrance to Freddie and Nick’s current apartment. The driver appeared to be a woman, and by the way she was working her accelerator—which is to say, barely—it seemed as if she was afraid that anything above a crawl would get her in trouble. She paused and squinted at us before looking down at a paper in her hand.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Hmm,” Cilla said. “Probably someone Freddie knows.”

Her tone was way too casual. “Is he seeing someone?” I asked.

Cilla gazed into the middle distance, as if doing math. “Seeing someone can mean one thing to one person…”

“Another party planner?” I asked, glancing again at the archway. The woman had apparently read her map correctly and was gone. “Good to know Freddie is back on his game.”