I carried my tarts into the cafeteria. I didn’t recognize anyone, but that was fine. I was here to mingle, to prove I was part of Woodard, one of them. What would Adam do? I asked myself, trying to envision it. He was so good at forced social events. At our wedding, he had been as comfortable doing the chicken dance with our nieces and nephews as he was listening to my uncle Stan go on about where to find the best cheesesteaks in downtown Philly and how someone was going to die someday running over a pothole in his neighborhood because the director of the Highway Division was corrupt and only cared about his box seats at the Wells Fargo Center.

But I wasn’t a natural, not like Adam.

I was improving. Baby steps. The Theresa Pressley from several years ago—heck, even six months ago—would’ve gotten hives just thinking about walking into a den of overachieving mothers, but things were different now. If the Ivy Five liked me, everyone else would, too.

Two women were chatting with each other next to the water fountain, and I decided to introduce myself. “Hi, I’m Theresa Pressley. Principal Wallace’s wife.” I said it with authority, confidence, then had no idea what to say next.

“Oh we know who you are,” one of them said, almost bitter-sounding.

What would Adam do? I thought again. Say something witty? Kill them with kindness?

“It must be my legendary tarts that gave me away,” I said, gesturing toward the tray. “My mother always said I’d be famous someday for my baking.”

That was a bald-faced lie. I added a dazzling smile.

“Those do look good,” the friendly one said. They introduced themselves—Kathryn and Diane (the snarky one). “Are they a family recipe?”

“No. They’re actually super easy to make. Just shortbread and some apricot jam and the blueberries.” I recited what April, the helpful woman behind the counter, had told me. “You can even cut the dough into rectangles, so you don’t waste any.”

“Interesting,” Diane murmured. “You can just set them over there on the table and someone will price them for you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “And while we’re at it, I’d love to pitch in and help. It will keep me from wandering the tables and gaining fifteen pounds with all these temptations. Anyone in need?”

Kathryn glanced around, then gestured toward someone across the room. “Yes. Yes. I’m sure Maggie could use some help with the register, if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Lead the way.”

I followed her to a table where a very busy woman was standing with a cash box. “Maggie. I’ve got a ready volunteer.”