Vickie took half a bagel and spread some strawberry-flavored cream cheese on it. Zoe did the same, but she used the “Everything” cream cheese—onion, garlic, pepper, basil and whatever else the manufacturer could find to toss in. Vickie was tempted to point out Zoey might render a client senseless with her breath later, but mentioning it would only encourage her stubborn goddaughter to eat more of the stuff. She shook her head as a swell of affection rose inside her. Zoey was the closest thing to a daughter she’d ever had.

“You are every bit a proper lady, my dear...whatever that means these days. Marjorie was hopelessly stuck in the age of those old black-and-white Hollywood movies where so-called ladies wore big hats and white gloves while they stabbed you in the back. I prefer my lady friends looking me right in the eye when they’re trying to bury me.”

“I’m not trying to bury you, Vickie, but I get what you’re saying.” Zoey’s nose wrinkled as she set the bagel down after one small bite. “If I eat the rest of this, I’ll be losing clients from here to Watkins Glen. Sorry for wasting it—the cream cheese smells so good, but it’s a bad idea.”

Vickie chuckled. “I’ll eat it later, I’m sure. God, your mom loved a fully loaded breakfast. Western omelets, everything bagels, onions galore in her scrambled eggs. I told her she was living dangerously, but she always said—” The memory caught up with her suddenly, making her melancholy decades later. She swallowed hard. “She said if one was going to be living, they may as well do it as dangerously as possible as long as they could.”

“So bizarre how you two ever became friends. She was such a bohemian live wire and...” Zoey’s cheeks flushed.

“And I’m such an uptight snob?” She knew it was how many people thought of her.

“That is not what I’m saying, and you know it. You’re not a snob, but you...um...care about appearances more than some people do. People like my mom, from what I’ve heard.”

“Oh, your mom never gave a damn what anyone thought about her.” Zoey looked so much like her mother—tall and slender, with the same long dark hair and brown eyes. The heavy brows and long eyelashes. The boldness of her walk. But Zoey’s air of confidence wasn’t quite as authentic as Gloria’s had been. She was smart and independent, running her own business and learning how to be a single mom, but there was an air of fragility to Zoey that Gloria never had. Probably because Zoey had lost her mother when she was only four years old.