Even so! She thought about a cookbook with her name on it. She thought about the Pioneer Woman and her empire (a boutique hotel! a housewares line!) that had all started with a blog. And she couldn’t help it: She wanted. She wanted.

“What are you baking?” asked Maggie now. “It smells delicious!” Lu hadn’t actually begun baking anything yet, so that made her smile; either Maggie was having a Pavlovian response to the sight of the ingredients all laid out, or she was just really, really a nice kid. Her shirt said If History Repeats Itself, I’m Getting a Dinosaur.

“Cornbread.”

“I love cornbread!”

Lu thought about Jeremy saying, “She’s a stranger to me.” She thought about the cookbook proposal she was working on, and she thought about the money in her secret account.

“I’ll take you as many days next week as you’re free, by the way,” she said to Maggie.

Chapter 30

JOY

DINNER AT WINFIELD’S went extremely well. Joy had thrown all caution (and wisdom) to the wind and ordered the spaghetti carbonara with duck confit instead of the swordfish or the halibut, and Anthony had the grilled beef tenderloin. A seltzer for Anthony, and two glasses of Prisma Sauvignon Blanc for Joy. She was ready, if Anthony produced another I love you.

Over the appetizer (they shared the seared scallops and the Narragansett Bay mussels), Joy pulled out a few of her favorite family stories—the time all four of her brothers got kicked out of Scottie’s Pub for fighting with each other, the time her sister-in-law Tina packed up her family after a day at Sandy Beach and drove a quarter of a mile away before she realized she’d left one of her kids behind, the time one of the Hallamore Clydesdales pulling Santa’s sleigh pooped on her father’s shoe before the annual Christmas parade. For dessert they shared a crème brûlée that was to die for.

But Maggie was sleeping at home that night, no sleepover at Riley’s, no Dustin, so after dinner they parted ways, Anthony depositing a chaste peck on Joy’s lips. Joy’s entrée had been heavy on the garlic—was that to blame?

Later, the cream from the carbonara wreaked havoc on Joy’s system. She came down with a case of heartburn. She tossed and turned for much of the night. It was too warm in her bedroom, but when she opened the windows there was so much street noise that she couldn’t fall asleep. She walked around the upstairs, checking on Maggie, checking on Pickles. (Both were slumbering soundly in Maggie’s bed.) She took three Tums and drank a glass of water. She returned to her own bed and tried every sleep aid app on her iPhone—Calm, Brain Waves, Sleep Genius, Sleep Pillow. Nothing worked. Everything seemed to make her brain race faster.

Just after dawn she gave up and made coffee in the French press. When she looked in the mirror she saw that her eyes were puffy. Her head hurt. Her heart hurt. It was ridiculous. What, specifically, was wrong with her? Was she simply too full of rich food and wine, or was she in love? Was she heartsick? Pickles appeared from Maggie’s room.