LITMIR.BIZ

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only turning thirty once in my life. I want to celebrate it privately, with you.”

      She’s beginning to wish she had never planned the big party. She booked the date—the night before her birthday—at the Imperial Ballroom at the Park Plaza Hotel a few months ago.

      Spotting her sorority sisters approaching the table with the hostess, Tildy lowers her wineglass. Maybe she should have invited them to the party, she thinks—but only for a split second.

      No, she shouldn’t have. They’re not a part of her life now. They wouldn’t fit in.

      Brynn, she hasn’t seen in years. Tildy notes, reluctantly, that her former sorority sister hasn’t lost her fresh-faced, wholesome prettiness, nor her willowy figure.

      But the cut of her dark blazer is all wrong, and she’s wearing it over a pair of Gap khakis, with flat brown loafers of all things.

      Tildy herself is appropriately dressed in Ralph Lauren Black Label, perfect for a Saturday luncheon in the country. Fresh from the salon, her hair is newly cut in sophisticated layers that fall to her shoulders.

      Brynn’s is still long, pulled back in a simple ponytail, and she’s got on precious little makeup.

      With some eyeliner, a flattering haircut, and stylish clothes, Tildy thinks, she’d be a knockout.

      As it is, she just looks so…small-town New England. Like someone’s wife, someone’s mom. All of which, Tildy reminds herself, she is.

      But she doesn’t have to look the part, for God’s sake.

      Jealous, are you? an annoying little voice pipes up.

      Certainly not. Not of Brynn’s looks, anyway.

      And not of anything else. Not anymore.

      Ah, there’s Fiona. She hasn’t changed much since she was in Boston in June, when Tildy introduced her to her old boarding-school friend James Bingham over an elegant seafood dinner at Aura.

      Her well-cut trim charcoal designer suit is a little businesslike for Tildy’s taste. Still, it’s expensive, fashionable, and becoming, and her legs look fabulous in the above-the-knee pencil-slim skirt and tall-heeled pumps. Her jewelry is gold and tastefully expensive.

      Her painstaking assessment sliding north, Tildy notes that Fee’s hair is twisted from its sleek right part into its usual smooth auburn chignon, her porcelain skin is flawless as ever, and her green eyes are expertly highlighted with a smoky shadow.

      She looks good, she thinks grudgingly. But not better than I do.

      Standing, Tildy takes turns air-kissing both their cheeks and notices that Brynn’s eyes are suspiciously bright.

      “You’re not going to cry, for God’s sake, are you?” she asks lightly as they pull out chairs.

      Rather, she intends it to come out lightly, a quip among old friends.

      Instead, she sounds bitchy, even to her own ears.

      “I’m trying not to.” Brynn studies her cloth napkin as she spreads it in her lap. “I’m just a little emotional about…everything.”

      “You always were,” Fiona comments with a hint of affection, and gives her shoulder a pat. But, looking at Tildy across Brynn’s bowed head, she smirks, just a little.

      “And you never were,” Tildy can’t help but comment, as she lifts her glass again in a silent, and not necessarily approving, toast to Fiona.

      “I never was what? Emotional?” Fiona shrugs and picks up the leather-bound wine list. “To my credit, no, I wasn’t. I wasn’t a lot of things Brynn was. Is that Chardonnay you’re drinking?”

      “Pinot Grigio.”

      Fiona flags a passing waiter; not theirs. “I’d like a glass of the Bouchard Père & Fils Puligny-Montrachet. Brynn?”

      She looks up. “Oh…Just an iced tea, please. With lemon.”

      “Oh, come on, Brynn, live a little,” Tildy urges. “At least have a glass of wine with us.”

      Brynn shakes her head. “I’m just getting over strep throat and I’m still on antibiotics. I’ll be the designated driver.”

      “I don’t think so,” Fiona says briskly, and turns to Tildy. “Have you heard from Cassandra?”

      “She left me a message this morning.” And one last night, as well. Tildy screened both calls.

      “What did she say?”

      “Just that she’ll be here. She must have hit traffic. Did you know she’s getting married to some guy in November?”

      “She e-mailed us both when she got engaged,” Brynn says. “I called her to say congratulations and catch up. She told me about her fiancé…She said they met at the hospital where she’s doing her residency. He’s a doctor, right? A podiatrist or something?”

      “I think so.” Tildy idly inspects her manicure.

      “She said you met him when they came to Boston for a Red Sox game this summer. What’s he like?”

      Tildy wonders if Brynn really cares, or is just trying to keep the conversation afloat until Cassie arrives and they can get down to business.

      Fiona is busy pulling her Blackberry from her pocket and flipping it open under the table, checking for e-mail.

      “Alex? He’s nice enough,” Tildy says briefly. She can think of nothing to add other than, “Good-looking, too.”

      “Oh, it’s Alex?” Brynn asks. “I thought it was Alec.”

      Hmm. Maybe it is. Tildy makes a mental note to pay more attention next time Cassie mentions him.

      Fiona tucks her phone back into her pocket and casts a glance over each shoulder before asking Tildy in a low voice, “So, what did you think when you got that birthday card in the mail?”

      “To be honest? I thought one of you had a sick sense of humor.”

      “It wasn’t us,” Brynn tells her definitively. “And Cassie swears it wasn’t her. So unless it was you—”

      “It wasn’t me. Please!” Tildy rolls her eyes.

      “Well, then, who the heck do you think it could have been?”

      Hmm, Brynn seems to have a bit more spunk than she ever did back in college, Tildy notes with some satisfaction. Good for her.

      “I don’t know what to think,” she replies evenly, and fights the urge to pick up her wineglass again. She doesn’t want them to think she’s drinking to calm herself.

      And anyway, she’d better keep her wits about her, or this could go very badly.

      Fifteen minutes after watching Brynn and Fiona climb out of the BMW and walk into the restaurant, Cassie is still sitting in her Toyota parked at the far end of the parking lot.

      She’s got to go in.

      Either that, or just drive away.

      But she can’t just sit here indefinitely, mulling things over.

      I shouldn’t have come at all.

      Really, there’s so much she could be—should be—doing instead, with every free moment she’s not working at the hospital. She has to finalize the reception menu. Meet again with the seamstress who’s doing the final alterations on her wedding gown. Give Alec’s sister the final guest list for next month’s shower, which she was supposed to have completed weeks ago.

      “Go ahead and invite anyone you want,” Tammy urged her. “Neighbors, distant relatives, old college pals…I’m serious, I’ve got plenty of room.”

      Cassie suspects that her future sister-in-law is as eager to be graciously accommodating

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