“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” I mutter to myself, flipping through the cookbook to find a cupcake recipe. “I’ll pull these together if you want to run into town and get some champagne and those cake decorations.”

“Okay,” Evan says, his long legs already striding for the door.

“And get the good champagne, too, like Veuve,” I call.

“Not the cheap crap you drink, is that what you’re saying?” Evan yells back.

I turn on the blender to cover not only my laughter but also the echo of truth.

FORTY-SIX

Evan and I hold umbrellas over Mr. and Mrs. DeLancey as we usher them to the honeymoon cottage. He has a firm grip on his wife’s arm as she maneuvers slowly with a cane.

“I hope you had a nice drive,” I say.

“We had a nice driver,” Bob laughs.

“Well, we’re so honored you’ve chosen to stay with us.”

I open the door and usher them inside.

“Happy anniversary!” I say.

Evan retreats and begins bringing in their luggage.

They are about the cutest couple I’ve ever seen: they resemble Henry Fonda and Katharine Hepburn from On Golden Pond—elegant and refined yet comfortable and not fussy—although Bob is much more affable than Fonda’s Norman Thayer.

For the longest time, no one says anything, and I begin to panic, thinking they don’t like the accommodations, the renovations, the flowers, even me.

Bob is leading Grace around the cottage, and she is studying each piece of furniture, every floral arrangement.

I can hear my heartbeat in my eardrums. I feel dizzy. I sneak a glance at Evan, who is wet from the rain. He shrugs his shoulders.

Unable to take another second of silence, I finally say, “If there is anything you don’t like, or if this doesn’t meet your expectations...?”

Grace turns, her head cocked, her eyes following my voice.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “The room is just beautiful. I love it.” She smiles at me. “I have age-related macular degeneration. I can still see, but it’s difficult for me to make everything out. Things can look a bit blurry.”

Grace stops and thumps her cane on the floor, and then lifts it to tap Bob on the rear. “I have these two to get me through it, though,” she says with a laugh.

“Oh, my gosh,” I say. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

“Please stop apologizing,” she says. “There’s absolutely nothing to be sorry about.”

Evan shoots me a glance as if to say, “Told ya so, Mom.”

“It smells like heaven in here,” Grace continues, lifting her nose and sniffing the air. “Peonies. My favorite.”

“Always have been, right, cupcake?” Bob asks, before looking at me. “How’d you know?”

I duck my head. “I didn’t,” I say. “But they’re my favorites, too.”