When it came out of the oven, I let it cool on the windowsill.
Then I wrote a card.
It took me a long time. I wrote it three times before I got it right.
The barbecue started at four.
From our kitchen window, I could see over the fence into Vanessa’s backyard. She’d gone all out. Strings of little white lights hanging from the trees. A long table with a white tablecloth. Coolers full of beer and wine. A big grill with smoke rising from it. Music playing from a speaker. Some kind of soft jazz.
The neighbors started arriving at four-fifteen. The Pratts, from across the street, who’d lived on Willowbrook Lane for forty years. The Johnsons, with their three little boys. Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski, who were in their eighties and walked very slowly. A young couple from the end of the street I didn’t know well. About twenty-five people total.
