“What are you doing, Mom?” asked Lily.

“Her husband!” exclaimed their mother, frowning.

“David Beckham?” asked Joey, piecing together Victoria Beckham. “He’s a soccer player.”

“Oh.” Bea kicked an imaginary soccer ball. “Whatever.”

“You were identifying Victoria by reference to her famous husband, Mom?” said Lily. “Not cool. I’d argue that what she’s achieved with her fashion line is far more monumental than—”

“Out-feministed, Mom,” said Joey, surprised as a real laugh squeezed out of her. “I never thought the day would happen.”

Bea smiled and tried to wrap Lily into her arms, but Lily squirmed away. She’d once been asked in an interview, What is your worst nightmare?, and she’d replied, Group hugs.

“The student is now the teacher,” said Bea.

Lily nodded. “Anyway, yeah, Joey. Victoria Beckham.”

“Right. Wow, Lil. The whole thing sounds really ambitious. I’m proud of you.” Joey grabbed a piece of bubble wrap that was asking for it and crumpled it up in her hand. The pops felt like a little outlet for so many things that Joey couldn’t name.

“Yeah.” Her sister shrugged. “I’m sort of aging out of the teen demographic now, but I’ve still got my pulse on things.”

“And this is your outfit for writing?”

“I need to feel myself to generate inspired content. What do you wear to paint?”

“Old jeans usually and…I guess something similar to your top, actually. One of Grant’s white button-downs. I like to feel like a blank palette.”

“For Godsakes, Joey,” said Bea. “At least put a bra on. What will Grant think?”

“On that note, I disagree, Ma.” Lily smirked. “The no-bra look is all the rage these days. Nipples are decidedly in.”

“Really?” said Bea, running her fingers along her chest. “That’s very interesting.”

“Great, look what you’ve done, Lil,” Joey said, and the sisters both laughed.

*  *  *

“So what are your thoughts on seating Evie Nicholas by Mr. Sanders?” asked Bea, sitting cross-legged in the breakfast nook. “Because they might actually hit it off, and it’s a mitzvah to matchmake if we have the chance, don’t you—”

“Who is Mr. Sanders?” interrupted Joey.

Bea pushed aside a plate with cold salmon to make room for her chart. “You don’t remember Mr. Sanders? At Kilwins? Who always gave you an extra piece of turtle fudge? And then pulled quarters from behind your ears?”

Ah, Joey did remember, vaguely. The man who pulled quarters from behind her ears but then didn’t let her keep them. She’d never understood why that was supposed to be a fun trick. “Okay, but why was he invited to my wedding?”

“We couldn’t not invite Mr. Sanders! He’s eighty-three and still on his feet every day at Kilwins, scooping the most perfect scoop of rocky road you’ve ever seen.”