“Oh, well.” Now able at last to make a helpful contribution, Lulu drained her glass, stood, and pulled her friend to her feet. “If a mother’s what you need, that’s very easily sorted. Come along.”

Fee was sitting in the small, lush garden behind the family home, reading a book under a climbing white rosebush, its flowers beginning to gleam in the gathering dusk, a dish of plump black olives to her hand. She looked up when her visitors arrived, and her face lit.

“How lovely,” she said. “Charlie, don’t you look pretty, red is definitely your color. Lulu, my darling, you look pooped, I’m tempted to report that place to the Slave Labor Board. Sit down and have an olive, I decided your father needn’t be the only one gorging on them this week.”

Lulu perched on a bench and sampled an olive.

“A bit too much oregano, but otherwise very nice,” she pronounced. “Mom, Charlie has a boyfriend problem.”

“Lulu!” Charlie, who had been hoping for a more gentle introduction to the topic, blushed crimson.

“Well, you have,” said Lulu. “That’s why we’re here. And we could spend the next quarter of an hour being polite and talking about olives and color schemes, or we could get down to business. So go ahead.” She took another olive, and nodded encouragingly. “Mom’s really good at this sort of stuff. She does it for a living, remember.”

“I know she does,” said Charlie. “And I’m thinking that maybe she’s been doing it all day long and doesn’t necessarily feel like doing it all over again in the evening.”

“What are you talking about?” said Lulu. “It comes naturally to her. Like painting to Picasso, or chasing mice to Toby.”

“Lulu,” said Charlie. “I really don’t think—”

“Lulu, honey,” said Fee. “I have an idea. Why don’t you go to the bathroom, run yourself a nice long shower, and change into some of your old clothes? Then maybe go into the kitchen—we have cheese, eggs, spinach, all sorts of good things—and fix us something delicious for supper? We’ll open a bottle of wine, have ourselves a nice meal, and then I’ll send you girls home in a taxi. Sound good?”

A week later, Charlie came home from work with pink in her cheeks and a smile on her face.

“What’s Fee’s favorite flower?” she asked Lulu, busy about roasting a chicken.

“Mom’s?” Sophie looked up from her latest Stage and Screen, and snorted. “Try anything with petals and a stem. That should just about cover it.”

“Why do you ask?” said Lulu, narrowing her eyes hopefully. Charlie had not told her what she and Fee had said in the garden that evening, and Fee had privately forbidden Lulu to ask.

“Well.” Charlie sat down at the table, the color in her cheeks deepening. “I talked to him.”

“Who?” Scenting a story, Sophie abandoned her paper. “Who did you talk to? What am I missing?”

“Shut up, Sophie, this is grown-up stuff.” Lulu closed the oven door on the chicken and joined Charlie at the table. “And?” she asked.