The woman looks down at the plate and seems to recognize it as one belonging to the Reynolds household. She looks down at Kat, too, wondering perhaps if she should in fact invite the two of us in. A second later she swings the door wide.

“If you could just wait here in the foyer a moment, I’ll see if the missus will see you.”

As I step inside the beautifully appointed entry—marble floors, a richly woven rug, and gleaming wood paneling—I hear women’s voices, and it occurs to me that I should have sent a note first. That’s what Libby would have done. Other people are already here.

Before the maid can leave us to speak to Libby, she appears from what is probably the Reynoldses’ parlor, no doubt having heard the doorbell. Her face registers surprise and perhaps a little apprehension and then a sweet veneer of courtesy. She strides forward. Libby is wearing a beautiful dress of royal blue chintz with ivory lace tucked about the yoke and sleeves. It shimmers and swishes as she walks.

“Why, Mrs. Hocking,” she says politely. “How good of you to drop by. I’m so sorry I can’t visit at the moment.”

“It’s quite all right.” I match the pleasant tone. “Kat and I were just returning the plate. Thank you ever so much for the cakes.”

“Of course.” Libby smiles graciously.

I extend the plate, but Libby does not reach out to take it. Instead, it is the maid who grasps hold.

Libby leans toward me a few inches. “I’ve some ladies from the academy over for tea. I’m so sorry.”

Her words sound genuine enough, but I can’t shake the notion that Libby is only sorry that I’ve come calling, not that she is unable to visit with me. I believe she has realized how very much I am not like her. I don’t have a maid, I don’t have women friends over for tea, I don’t have a husband who comes home every night, I don’t have a courtship to talk about or a wedding dress wrapped in linen in a cedar chest. I have a child but not the memory of bringing that child into the world or the joy of watching her first step or hearing her laugh or cry. I linger on the foyer rug when I know I should turn to leave.

Libby smiles sweetly at me. “Perhaps another time?”

“Yes, that would be . . . lovely.” I finally turn to step out. “Thank you again for the sweets and your visit.”

Libby smiles wide. “Good-bye!” The door closes.

Kat and I walk back across the street.

“I guess we will have to play with Timmy another day,” I say with fake cheer. Kat seems to sense my disappointment. The child looks up at me with eyes that nearly gleam with perception.

“I’ll be all right, love,” I say. “I was just looking forward to a visit with our neighbors today. How about if we draw some pictures for Timmy instead? Would you like to do that?”