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the Dakota would forever be known as the place where John Lennon was shot. It was also the superluxe home of Clem’s current charge: an oversize pug with an attitude problem. Georgia arrived at the fabled building, cheeks slightly damp from the persistent spring drizzle, and gave her name to one of four uniformed doormen manning the entrance. Clem lived in a tiny studio in Hell’s Kitchen and offered her dog-sitting services to anyone and everyone, so long as the deal included park views and an elevator operator. She poked her head into the marble-floored hallway as Georgia made her way from the elevator.
    “Sit down, Petal. Sit. Come on in, Georgia. Hurry!” Clem hissed. Her hair was pulled back in a stumpy pigtail, and her freckled face was makeup free. She wore a red hoodie and matching yoga pants and was the only redhead Georgia knew who wore red almost every day.
    Georgia sneaked past the dog and whistled as she took in the Bordeaux-colored walls, egg-and-dart moldings, and cast plaster medallions on the ceiling. “So this is a classic eight, huh? Not bad for a pug.” She took a seat on a zebra-print-covered ottoman and jiggled her foot impatiently. “What’s our plan?”
    “Bloodies at Lenny’s? Mimosas at Mars? Or maybe just a stroll through the park with my new horse?” Clem gestured to Petal, who eyeballed her from his crushed-velvet bed. “Although”—shegestured to Georgia’s haloed hair, frizz factor at least eight—“I guess it’s still raining.”
    “Whatever you want to do. I don’t care. My fiancé is a cokehead. Even worse is that he lied to me about it. How do you lie to the woman you’re about to marry?”
    “I knew there was something up with him last night. At least you found out before the wedding.”
    “Are you saying I shouldn’t marry him? Because of the coke?”
    “I’m not going to tell you what to do, Georgia. But even without the coke, things haven’t seemed so great between the two of you. Ever since he proposed, you’ve seemed, I don’t know, anxious.”
    Georgia stood and walked to the window. “Glenn’s a great guy,” she said slowly. “He is. He’s smart, successful, funny—he’s everything any girl would want. It’s just been hard to see lately.”
    “But is he what
this
girl wants?” Clem pointed at Georgia.
    “Yes. At least I think so. I don’t know.” Georgia stared at the treetops dotting Central Park, full and verdant after the barren winter. The rain had stopped and the sky filled with a dim light. “Maybe I’m just suffering from a severe case of cold feet.”
    “Maybe,” Clem said doubtfully.
    “Where’s the kitchen?” Georgia asked. “I’m starving.”
    Clem directed her to the kitchen, easily the size of her entire apartment, and she took stock of her ingredients. Some people smoked when they were upset, some did yoga, or drank, or paced, or picked fights, or counted to one hundred. Georgia cooked.
    As a small girl growing up in Massachusetts, she’d spent most of her time in her grandmother’s kitchen, watching wide-eyed as Grammy kneaded the dough for her famous pumpernickel bread, sliced up parsnips and turnips for her world-class pot roast, or, if she was feeling exotic, butterflied shrimp for herdelicious Thai basil seafood. A big-boned woman of solid peasant stock, as she herself used to say, Grammy moved around the cramped kitchen with grace and efficiency, her curly gray hair twisted into a low bun. Humming pop songs from the forties, her cheeks a pleasing pink, she turned out dish after fabulous dish from the cranky Tappan stove she refused to replace. Those times with Grammy were the happiest Georgia could remember. It had been almost a year since she died, and not a day passed that Georgia didn’t miss her.
    She pulled out half a dozen eggs, sliced supermarket Swiss and some bacon from the double-width Sub-Zero. A quick scan of the spice rack yielded a lifetime supply of Old Bay seasoning, three different kinds of