At the shop they were already loading the centerpieces into the van. The bride didn’t care about the immense, untamed fires, the acres of trees burning, the homes destroyed, or the two firefighters who had already lost their lives to the blaze: the wedding would proceed no matter what. “Come hell or high water,” the father of the bride had said, however unfitting the expression was for the natural disaster at hand, and threatened to sue if the centerpieces didn’t arrive. But his firm was an important client of the small florist shop, and so the owner insisted that every effort be made to get the arrangements of ranunculus—which were not even lilac, and so already cause for offense—to the house where the wedding would take place.

Noa’s boss called out to her from behind a curtain of fronds.

“The highway is blocked off, and Bobbi isn’t here yet. I need you to go with Nick to deliver.”

She helped him load the centerpieces into the van. There were twenty-five altogether, plus three large bouquets in urns, and the bridal bouquet. As she set down the last centerpiece in the cool interior of the van, her phone buzzed against her hip. It was her mother, and she let it ring. But Monica was persistent and didn’t let up.

“I’m at work!”

“Why work? Leonard said you were going to the Berkowitzes’!”

Noa clamped the phone to her ear with her shoulder and began hooking up the bungee cords to hold the vases in place. “I haven’t spoken to the Berkowitzes. We have a wedding.”

“What wedding? Who’s getting married at a time like this?”

“Delivering now. I have to go.”

“I’ve been watching online all morning. It says the fires—”

Noa slammed the back doors of the van and went around to the passenger seat as Nick started the engine.

“I really have to call you back,” she insisted, cutting her mother off.

“This is serious, Noa. You shouldn’t be driving around the city at a time like this. It isn’t safe.”

“It’s fine. The roads are open here, the fires are miles away. I’ll call you later. Say hi to Grandma.”

“She doesn’t remember you. Yesterday she thought I was her mother.”

Noa felt a stab of hurt. She didn’t say what she wanted to: that the whole family was disintegrating. Instead she said a firm goodbye and returned the phone to her pocket. She slid her feet out of her sandals and pressed her toes into the dash. The palm trees outside were thrashing in the wind. She thought how if her grandmother had been present enough to receive the news of Monica and Leonard’s divorce, she would have been shocked and outraged. She would have been capable of any number of outsize reactions, but none would have been accepting. Maybe Monica had waited until her mother was sheltered by dementia so as to spare them both. Or maybe it had been her grandmother’s frailty, the fact of her approaching death, that made Monica feel how time was running out for the things she still wanted from life. Or had the whole thing been Leonard’s idea? Her parents had presented a united front, making it impossible for their daughters to know who had instigated the separation. No one was hurt; each had gotten what they wanted. They were in agreement about no longer needing to agree on how to live the rest of their lives.