“It’s the only way to put it on.”

“But why?”

“No one knows, Simon; it’s just what you do when you put mascara on.”

“Like as a rule?”

“Stop talking to me while I look like a fish and let me get pretty, for goodness’ sake,” I squawked, and he disappeared around the corner. I finished putting on my face, and I did actually try to finish my mascara with my mouth closed, but it just wasn’t possible. I was reaching for my lip gloss when his head popped back around the doorframe.

“By the way, we’ve been invited to Philadelphia.”

“Where the cheesesteaks live? Whatever it’s for, we say yes!”

“Yes to cheesesteaks, or yes to the invite?’

“Wasn’t kidding at all when I said whatever it’s for, we say yes. But now that you mentioned it, what exactly are we invited to?” I hoped he didn’t notice that the drooling had officially begun.

“Trevor, my old friend from high school? You remember his wife, Megan, right?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Okay?” he said, squinting at me in a curious way.

“Megan was able to get me the single most important item in this entire house.”

“She got you that new vibrator?”

“Jesus . . .”

“Oh, the cookbook, right,” he said, remembering.

Megan used to work for the Food Network, and was able to secure me a signed copy of the original Barefoot Contessa cookbook. By Ina Garten. Signed to me by the way; one of those “Best wishes, Ina” deals. It honest-to-God said:

To Caroline—

Best Wishes,

Ina

Go ahead and be jealous. I’ll wait.

Simon, on the other hand, would not.

“Okay, so you remember Megan.”

“Remember her? Did you not hear me say single most important—”

“I got it, babe. Are you at all curious about hearing what they’re up to, or are you just going to spend some head-space time dreaming of Ina and her kitchen?”

“And me in her kitchen. If you’re going to get into my daydream, you have to set the scene correctly. I’m there with Ina, in her kitchen in the Hamptons, and we’re cooking up something wonderful for you and her husband, Jeffrey. Something with roasted chicken, which she’ll teach me how to carve perfectly. And roasted carrots, which she’ll pronounce with that subtle New York accent of hers, where it sounds like she’s saying kerrits.”

“I worry about you sometimes,” Simon said, reaching over to feel my forehead.

“I’m perfectly fine. Don’t worry about me, I’ll continue my fantasy later. So what’s up in Philly?”

“Oh, we’re back to my story now?” he asked, and I leaned in and kissed him in apology.

“Sorry, babe, tell me all about Trevor and that wonderful wife of his,” I said. I was playing with him, but I actually liked both of them. We’d gone back to Simon’s hometown for his tenth high school reunion last year, and he was welcomed back like a conquering hero. He hadn’t been back since he graduated high school, not long after both of his parents were killed in a car accident. No one had seen him since, and while he was initially nervous about how he’d be received, he was very quickly convinced that everyone was just thrilled he was back. In high school he’d been the homecoming king and everything that you’d assume comes with it. High school Simon was big man on campus. He’d had his own posse of what I called the apostles (his old pals Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John), headed by his old bestie, Trevor. We’d spent a lot of the reunion evening with him and his new wife, Megan, who was then pregnant with their first.

“How are they enjoying their new life with baby?”

“Enough that she’s pregnant again,” Simon said, and I dropped my lip gloss.

“What the hell is in the water these days? I’m switching to vodka. Always.”

“I’ll vote yes to that—vodka makes you crazy, and horny. And adventurous. You go on an all-vodka diet, and I’m pretty sure I can convince you to try that thing that you never let me do.”

“All the vodka in the world isn’t getting you in there, so forget it Simon,” I said, poking him with my lip gloss as he pouted. “So, Megan’s pregnant again—wow. Tell them congratulations from me.”

“That’s what started this whole thing. They’ve invited us out for the christening of baby number one, and to help celebrate baby number two. It’s next month; think you can get some time off?”

“For cheesesteaks? I mean for christening? Yes, yes, we should definitely do that.” I tried once more for the lip gloss when the doorbell rang. “Great, someone’s early. Go ahead and grab some colored pencils out of my bag.”

“For what?”

“Scattergories.”

“Right!” he exclaimed, then disappeared through the bedroom.

Alone for the moment, I finally applied my lip gloss and allowed myself a thought or two about Megan and Trevor. Two kids, in as many years. Before getting married, Megan had been on the fast track at the Food Network, working in what was in many ways a dream job. But her dream was a family, and she made that happen. And now she was on the baby fast track. Instead of styling artisanal cheese boards and making cream puffs puffier, she was wiping spittle and stepping on baby rattles.

I had a sudden flash image of Simon stepping on a baby rattle that Clive had stolen for his own toy and then left in his path, and I chuckled. Babies babies everywhere, and not a vodka to drink. I finished my lip gloss, twisting the cap shut with a click, and took a deep breath. I chased away rattle thoughts and indulged in a cheesesteak fantasy moment, interrupted by Simon calling out, “Idiots are here!”