She was working on a recipe for mini–chicken potpies. Both her fictional boys and her real boys went crazy when their food came out small; they ate twice as much overall when it was a third the size. It was an elegant equation.

She stretched her arms above her head and rolled her head from side to side, easing the tension in her neck. Lu had been able to work so much more with Maggie here to help that her body was starting to complain about all the sitting. Maybe she should actually start taking some of the exercise classes she’d been pretending to attend this summer. (She wouldn’t.)

She’d have to figure out the proportions for the mini-pies—and, oh, dear, would there be any proper ramekins in this kitchen? She knew she’d seen a pot big enough to boil lobsters out in the garage, and boiled lobster meant butter, and butter typically required ramekins, so she rooted around in the very back of all of the cupboards, and there she found them, under a half-used package of lobster bibs and next to a jumble of crackers. Her mind raced briefly ahead to lobster potpie, but she reminded herself to focus on the recipe at hand. Maggie was a huge help, but Lu didn’t have unlimited time.

When she returned to her computer she saw that a new email had come in from Abigail Knowles of the Wilder Literary Agency.

I love the sample cookbook pages you sent over, thx! I think it’s going to be really easy to pull together a proposal from these. I’ve spoken to my boss Huxley and he’s totally on board. I am currently out of the country on vacation (Italy!) so we might have to wait to talk. When I’m back, we’ll set up a phone call to discuss strategy and timing. As soon as I found you, I knew I had to have you. Can I have you?

Could Lu reasonably expect to become a man, to acquire a man’s voice, while Abigail Knowles was in Italy? Unlikely. Because she had the house to herself she tried it quickly, deepening her voice. “Hello,” she said. “May I have Abigail Knowles’s office, please?” It was ridiculous. At best she could maybe come off as a prepubescent boy, but certainly not a mature man, a married father of two. Why, exactly, had she let herself get into this situation in the first place?

She looked at the kitchen clock; she looked out the window. She rechecked her post-in-progress and hit save. Then she got up to stretch her legs and check on the laundry.

Lu was only in the laundry room for two minutes, maybe less, but in that time Maggie and the boys returned from the beach. It was amazing, Lu thought when she came back down, the way it took no time at all to transform a scene of peace and tranquillity into one of utter chaos. A sand pail was upended in the entryway just outside the kitchen, and shoes and towels were thrown every which way. Sebastian’s nose was running.