Neha smiled. “Well, we love our neighborhood and we’ve met some nice people. I like our apartment a lot. The city really does have a great quality of life.”

“What she wants to say is that it’s boring beyond description,” Brooke said, spearing an olive with a toothpick.

Neha nodded. “She’s right. It’s spirit crushing.”

Mrs. Greene laughed and Brooke could tell her mother was charmed. “So why don’t you two move back to New York? I know Brooke would be thrilled.”

“Rohan will be done with his MBA next year, and if I have any say at all, we’ll sell our car—I hate the driving—give up our perfectly lovely apartment, say good-bye to our extremely polite neighbors, and hightail it right back here where we can only afford a walk-up in a sketchy neighborhood surrounded by rude, aggressive people. And I will love every minute of it.”

“Neha . . .” Rohan overheard this last part and gave his wife a look.

“What? You can’t expect me to live there forever.” She turned to Brooke and Mrs. Greene and lowered her voice. “He hates it, too, but he feels guilty about hating it. Who ever hates Boston, you know?”

By the time everyone had gathered around the cloth-draped card table to start the meal, Brooke had all but forgotten about the hideous article. There was plenty of wine, and the turkey was moist and perfectly cooked, and although the mashed potatoes were a little bland, her guests protested that they were the best damn mashed potatoes they’d ever eaten. They chatted easily about the new Hugh Grant movie and the upcoming trip to Mumbai and Goa that Neha and Rohan were planning over the holidays to visit their families. Things were so relaxed, in fact, that when Brooke’s mother leaned over and quietly asked her how she was holding up, she almost dropped her fork.

“You’ve read it?” Brooke spat, staring at her mother.

“Oh, honey, of course I read it. Four different women forwarded it to me this morning. Gossip hounds, each and every one of them. I can’t even imagine how devastating it is to read—”

“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“—something like that about yourself, but anyone who’s ever met you two will know it’s complete—pardon my French—bullshit.”

Neha must have caught the tail end of this, because she too leaned over and said, “Seriously, Brooke, it was all so obviously fictional. I mean, not one word of it was true. Don’t think about it for a second.”

She felt like she’d been slapped again. Why did she think no one would read this? How had she managed to delude herself into believing that the whole thing would just go away?

“I’m trying not to think about it,” she said.

Neha nodded, and Brooke knew she understood. If only she could say the same for her mother.

“Did you see those photographers out there when you came in?” Mrs. Greene asked Neha and Rohan. “They’re like vultures.”

Julian must have seen her face tighten, because he cleared his throat, but Brooke wanted to explain once and for all so they could move along. “It’s not that bad,” she said, passing the platter of grilled asparagus to Randy. “They’re not there all the time, and we had a bunch of blackout shades put in, so they really can’t get any shots. Unlisting our number helped. I’m sure it’s the initial excitement over the album. They’ll be totally bored of us by New Year’s.”

“I hope not,” Julian said with a dimpled smile. “Leo just told me he’s pushing for a Grammy appearance. He thinks there’s a pretty good chance I could get picked to perform.”

“Congratulations!” Michelle said with more enthusiasm than she’d displayed the entire day. “Is it a secret?”

Julian glanced at Brooke, who met his gaze and gave him a look back.

He coughed. “Well, I don’t know if it’s a secret, but they won’t announce performers until after the New Year, so it probably doesn’t make sense to say anything.”

“Awesome, man,” Randy said, grinning. “We’re all going if you go. You know that, right? This family’s a package deal.”

Julian had told her of the possibility when they were on the phone before, but hearing him tell everyone else somehow made it more real. She could barely even wrap her mind around it: her husband performing at the Grammys for the entire world.

Ella squawked from her portable swing next to the table and broke the spell. Brooke took the time to put all the homemade goodies on cake plates and platters: two homemade pies from her mother, one pumpkin and one rhubarb; a dozen mint brownies from Michelle; and a plate of Neha’s specialty, coconut burfi, which looked a little like Rice Krispie treats but tasted more like mini cheesecakes.

“So, Brooke, how’s work going for you?” Rohan asked through a mouthful of brownie.

Brooke sipped her coffee and said, “It’s going well. I love the hospital, but I’m hoping to go into business for myself in the next couple years.”

“You and Neha should think about doing it together. It’s all she’s been talking about lately.”

Brooke looked at Neha. “Really? You’re thinking of opening a private practice?”

Neha nodded so hard her black ponytail swung up and down. “Sure am. My parents have offered to loan me part of the start-up money, but I’d still need a partner to be able to make it work. Of course, I wasn’t even thinking about it until we got back to the city. . . .”

“I had no idea!” Brooke said, her excitement growing by the second.

“I can’t work in an OB office forever. Hopefully one day we’ll have a family”—something about the way Neha glanced at Rohan, who immediately blushed and looked away, made Brooke think they were newly pregnant—“and I’ll need some more flexible hours. Ideally, a small private practice that focuses exclusively on pre- and postnatal nutrition for moms and babies. Maybe bring in a lactation consultant as well, I’m not sure.”

“That is exactly what I’ve been thinking!” Brooke said. “I need another nine months to a year in hands-on clinical experience, but after that . . .”

Neha delicately bit off a piece of burfi and smiled. She turned to the other side of the table. “Hey, Julian, you think you can cough up some cash to get your wife started here?” she asked, and everyone laughed.