Sandra ducked her head and took a large swallow.

“It’s okay. I’ll make some more and bring out a pitcher.” Janie stood and reached for Sandra’s empty glass. “But since Sandra is being greedy, she has to come and help me.”

Sandra stood. “Fine. It’s a fair punishment.”

“I’ll come too.” I took off my hat and bundled it together with my scarf and mittens and left the hand-knit trio on my chair, followed the redheaded duo into the kitchen.

Sandra strolled behind Janie and lovingly caressed the granite countertops as she entered the decently sized space; “I love this kitchen. It’s a kitchen for cooking.”

I shrugged. I wasn’t much of a cooker. I didn’t like to clean stuff up.

“I approve of this kitchen. I like the placement of the dishwasher relative to the sink and the refrigerator relative to the stove.” Janie said, towering above both of us, pouring tequila and lime juice into the cocktail shaker. “Sandra—can you start squeezing more limes? They are in the bottom drawer of the fridge.”

“These are really good margaritas, Janie. Well done.” I smiled up at her as I poured salt onto a plate; I coated the rim of Sandra’s empty glass with the crystals.

“It’s the Limoncello and fresh lime juice, I think. I also used agave nectar instead of sugar.” Janie squeezed the amber colored syrup into the shaker, replaced the lid, and started to shake.

“You should make these when we go to my reunion in Iowa next week.” I said, screwing the cap back on the tequila.

Janie abruptly stopped shaking the aluminum cylinder and stared at me with wide eyes, her mouth open slightly. She held very still. Sandra and I shared a concerned glance.

“Janie . . .? Are you okay?”

“I completely forgot. I completely forgot about your reunion.” Janie slowly lowered the shaker to the counter. She appeared to be both distraught and preoccupied.

I couldn’t help my frown. My heart started to sink. “Did you make other plans?”

“I’ll—I’ll find a way to . . . I’ll think of something.” She was staring over my shoulder in a way that told me she was trying to concentrate on a problem.

Sandra glanced between me and Janie. “What plans did you make? Maybe I can help?”

Janie sighed. “We’re—Quinn and I—we were planning to go to Boston to see his parents. I was going to meet his parents, but—” Janie’s hazel gaze met mine. “I completely forgot about the reunion since you and I planned the trip so long ago.”

“I’m confused. Isn’t Quinn estranged from his parents? Didn’t they, like, disown him? Don’t they blame him for his brother’s death or some such nonsense?” Sandra picked up the discarded shaker and finished the task Janie had abandoned.

Janie nodded; “Yes, they did. I’m not sure if they still do. I called his mom a few weeks ago and introduced myself. I told her I was marrying her son and explained that I planned to give her grandchildren at some point.”

Sandra’s hands ceased mid-shake. “You what?”

“Well, I know this separation from his family, from his mom and dad, contributes to some measure of his broodiness. I thought I could offer them grandchildren in exchange for forgiveness.”

I was not surprised. Janie was nothing if not practical. The plan made complete sense to me.

Sandra blinked at Janie, as though if she blinked hard enough Janie might disappear or grow a tail. I took the shaker from Sandra’s hands and finished the job of mixing the cocktail.

“I—I can’t believe you did that. You’re using children—”

Janie shook her head. “No. I’m not using children. We’re going to have kids anyway, and I thought why not use the idea of these future kids to persuade his parents to make the right decision now?”

Sandra made a choking sound then leaned on the kitchen counter. “You’re not going to—you’re not going to use the kids are you? Later? Once they’re born? You’re not going to manipulate his parents into—”

“No. Absolutely not.” Janie appeared to be genuinely horrified by the thought. “I would never do that. I just—I just want his mom and dad to give him a chance. I just want them to make an effort. He’s so . . . He’s so . . .”

“Grumpy?” I supplied as I poured the margarita into Sandra’s glass.

Janie tried to suppress her smile with a scowl. “No. Not grumpy. He’s sensitive. He doesn’t show it to many people—”

I snorted. “You mean he only shows it to you.”

She ignored me. “But he is. And he misses his family. And they’re his family. And I want to meet them. I’ve never had a mother, not really, and his mom sounds great, except for the whole—you know—disowning her son thing. And why shouldn’t my children have grandparents?”

I lifted Sandra’s glass and took a sip. “They should. I completely support you in this decision.”

Janie gave me a single nod of appreciation; “Thank you, Elizabeth. Your support means a lot.”

Sandra was still frowning as she took her glass away from me before I could take another drink. “Well then, what about the reunion? I imagine it took a lot for you to get these people to agree to the visit? Right?”

Janie looked from Sandra to me. She didn’t respond.

The earlier sinking feeling morphed into full-fledged and sudden depression. I couldn’t ask Janie to reschedule her trip to Boston. I knew how important it was to her to have a family. Her family was worse than having no family at all. Her sisters were criminals and her father—although he meant well—was clueless and, honestly, similar in personality to dry paint. Her mother, when she was alive, was a terrible woman who’d abandoned her family when it suited her.

At least I had my dad and wonderful memories of my mother.

Janie deserved this. She deserved to have her husband’s family know her and love her.

I glanced at the counter and picked at the granite; “You should go to Boston.” I met her gaze. “Really. Go to Boston.”

She shook her head. “I can reschedule. You can’t reschedule your reunion.”

“I’ll go.” Sandra’s declaration was a bit of a slurred shout.

Janie blinked at her; “To Boston?”

“No, Wonder Woman. I’ll go to Elizabeth’s high school reunion. I’ll go with Elizabeth, and you’re off to Boston with your McHotpants to go make babies for those awful people.”

Janie looked at me. I looked at Janie. I looked at Sandra. Sandra looked at me. Janie looked at Sandra. Sandra looked at Janie.

Sandra lifted her glass again, winked at me, and toasted us both. “To friendscorts. Like escorts, but without the cash.”

Chapter 4

“For the love of chartreuse, can we please listen to something else?”

“No.”

“Please, oh please, oh please, oh please.” She sounded so anguished, tortured.

“No.”

“Damnit, Elizabeth. I’ve dropped three stitches and had to rip out two rows of this shawl. I can’t listen to one more prepubescent boy say the word ‘girl’ or ‘kiss’ when you know he wants to say ‘whore’ and ‘fu—’”

“Fine.” I tightened my fingers around the steering wheel. “Fine, pick something else.”

Sandra bolted upright, placed her pile of knitting to the side, and grabbed my iPhone. “Oh, god, thank you so much. I know I said I wouldn’t make fun of your music, but I honestly do not know how you can listen to that. I could feel my vagina shriveling with each neutered verse.”

“Oh, come on—” Laughing, I glanced at Sandra from the driver’s seat. “—I saw you mouthing along with the last song.”

“Yes, but much like a schizophrenic mouths wordlessly to themselves or how one feels after stepping off the ‘It’s a Small World After All’ ride at Disney World.” She thumbed through my albums and her brow drew downward with each pass. “Well—you are a complete crackhead. Every single album on here is boy band shisterhosen.”

Sandra, making no attempt to hide her disgust, pulled the audio jack from my phone and dumped it in the center console. She pulled out her phone and simultaneously plugged it in while searching for music. When she pressed play, and a sultry, mournful voice reverberated over the speakers, her head fell back against the headrest, and she closed her eyes.

“Oh. Yes. God. That’s the stuff.” I noted her fingers flexing and unflexing on her knees.

We were just crossing the Mississippi River, heading west on I-80. I promised Sandra that we would make a detour at the World’s Largest Truck Stop so she could purchase an ear-flapped trucker hat. Part of me wondered if the truck stop was the main attraction of the trip for her.

Acres of what would usually be cornfields were barren on either side of the interstate. Large silver silos, red barns, and picturesque farm houses dotted the landscape. Tall, leafless trees lined the road, stretching to the sky like brown bottle brushes. It was near fifty degrees outside, and the sky hadn’t yet decided if it wanted to be gray or blue.