With Friends Like These: A Novel (46 page)

“Expecting something?” Talia asked.

“Nope, nothing,” Jules said, and walked to the stair landing. “I’ve got everything I want.” Before either of her friends had a chance to consider whether this was an expression of thanksgiving or conspicuous consumption, she shrieked, “Artie, get that, will you?” and returned to Sienna’s room. That was where they were, marveling at a rainbow of dresses, when Chloe shouted, “Anybody home?”

Quincy let out a whoop and bolted down the stairs, skipping the bottom step. The women embraced like loving sisters, and as Talia watched, she yearned to do the same. She wondered if she would ever hug Chloe—or be hugged by her—again. She waved from the top of the stairs. Chloe returned the gesture in her direction, but it was Jules, behind Talia, who asked, “How’d we get so lucky, Mrs. Keaton?”

Talia wondered, for the hundredth time, why she’d let small things get in the way of a big friendship. When she’d finally shared the story with her mother, who’d asked again and again why she’d stopped mentioning Chloe, Mira Fisher raised her voice. “Feh! You let that
tzimmes
with the job and school come between you and a friend? Why?”

“I don’t know, Mommy” was all she could say. “It seemed important at the time.” Defensible, which was not the same as legal and on a separate continent from right.

Chloe hung her coat in the closet next to the Blues’ parkas, which were red, and put down a large shopping bag. Peeking from the top was the trunk of a stuffed elephant. “An hour ago I realized that if Quincy went back to Minneapolis without my seeing J.J., I could never live with myself.” In the early afternoon light, with her hair pulled into a ponytail. Chloe looked as young as when they’d all first met. But they blinked, and suddenly she was like the rest of them, possibly wiser, definitely older.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Jules said as she walked toward Chloe, leaving Talia behind, wondering what Chloe truly thought
of the photograph of the two of them, both pregnant, that she’d recently sent. The thank-you note had been gracious. Talia saw it as headway. There was no other way to see it, unless she wanted to be a cynic.

“I’m glad you did,” Quincy said, draping her arm around Chloe’s shoulder.

“Hey, that’s what friends do,” Chloe said, pulling out the elephant for James Jubilee Blue, a kitten for Sienna Julia de Marco, and a shark for Henry Thomas Wells IV. The other mothers gushed thanks and thought:
Yes, friends give and friends receive. Friends love and friends accept love. Friends find the good in one another. Friends keep secrets, especially when they’re not asked, because no one needs to ask them
.

“Friends crash their friend’s party because the hostess has always cooked way too much,” Jules said.

“Is that one of Jules’ Rules?”

“Of course. You must be starving. I’ll heat something up.”

Chloe turned to look at Talia while Quincy gazed at Jules.
Friends get over things
.

“You’re right, Jules, that’s what friends do,” Talia said. Although she knew that was not all friends do for one another, all four of them felt, at that moment, as if they could sing their histories like the lyrics to a favorite show, one that was sold out, enjoying a well-deserved revival.

“Wait, let’s take a picture,” Talia said. “I want to remember this.” She reached into her bag and handed a camera to Tom.

They smiled for the camera, children in their arms. Talia did remember that day, and so did Quincy and Jules and Chloe. They remembered with love, forever.

Acknowledgments

It’s my hope that no friends have been harmed, infuriated, or stood up as I have allowed myself to become ego central in the writing of
With Friends Like These
. I could never have completed this novel without friends like these: Betsy, Dale, Rochelle, and Vicki, my four sister-friends, as well as the Barbaras, the Carols, the Ellens, the Janets, the Judiths, the Lindas, the Lisas, the Nancys, the Patricias, the other Betsy, and the other Sally plus Anita, Betty, Cathy, Charles, Chaya, Craig, Emily, Evelyn, Ina, Janey, Kristine, Leslie, Marilyn, Margaret, Margie, Marlena, Michele, Ovie, Paul, Ruth, Sharon, Shelley, Sheri, and Sherry and last but in no way least Vivian, queen of nitpicks. Thank you all for your warmth, humor, and good common sense.

Caitlin Alexander, you are a talented editor. I am in your debt for your patience and encouragement, along with many others on Ballantine’s superb team: Libby McGuire, sharp-eyed publisher; Kim Hovey, associate publisher; Steve Messina, a production editor of great patience; Sue Warga, copy editor; Robbin Schiff, art director; Diane Hobbing, who created the graceful interior design of this novel, as well as Cara Petrus, who
crafted its frisky illustration and cover design; Kristin Fassler and Quinne Rogers, whose capable hands have handled marketing; and, of course, Jynne Martin, an outstanding publicist.

Christy Fletcher, thanks for your flawless judgment and consistent enthusiasm. Gratitude, too, to Melissa Chinchilla for your energy in selling foreign rights to this book as well its older sisters, and to Swanna Mac-Nair for your spot-on comments and continued help.

Laura Ford, you’ve caused me to wonder, what editor isn’t, at heart, a social worker? I appreciate your support and friendship.

Robert, Jed and Rory, you are my team, forever in my heart.
Thank you
never stops.