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words and worried
     about his condition the following morning—because who wanted a dentist with unsteady hands, or who smelled of alcohol as he
     bent over you?
    “You heard about Hannah,” she said. “I presume Stephen mentioned it.”
    Tom cut into his steak. “Mentioned what?”
    “Her boyfriend left her.”
    “No, I didn’t hear that.”
    Of course Stephen wouldn’t have told Tom. Men didn’t talk about those things the way women did. They probably discussed the
     latest soccer results or political shenanigans when they had a break at the clinic.
    “Just walked out on her,” Alice said. “About a week ago now.”
    “That’s too bad.” Tom chewed his meat and lifted his glass. “They were together a good while, weren’t they?”
    “Over a year. Geraldine was convinced he’d propose at Christmas.”
    “So where’s he gone?”
    Alice made a face. “Some other woman, apparently.”
    “Mmm.”
    His wineglass was almost empty, hers practically untouched. In a minute or two he’d raise the bottle and hold it out to her,
     and she’d shake her head and he’d empty it into his glass.
    Six whites and six reds they’d gotten, all French. She wouldn’t know one wine from another, they all tasted the same to her.
     By the time the case was gone, it had become a habit. Now he brought home two or three bottles every few days. “Six ninety-nine,”
     he’d tell her. “Couldn’t leave them behind at that price.”
    “Are you busy tomorrow?” she asked.
    “Kept going. The usual.”
    “Will you have time to stop into the cupcake shop?” she asked. “I thought it would be nice to show our support on the first
     day, and I won’t get a chance, with Geraldine gone.”
    “Right.”
    “Get half a dozen of whatever she has, a mixture. And don’t let her give them to you for nothing.”
    “Okay.”
    He reached for the wine bottle. She put a hand over the top of her glass, and he emptied what was left into his own.
    He was only relaxing. There was no harm in it.

    A hundred and forty-four, twelve trays of twelve. Were 144 cupcakes enough for one day? There was no way of knowing. What
     if she’d made too many chocolate-orange and not enough lemon-lime? What if everyone wanted vanilla- coconut and nobody looked at the mocha? What if people hated the cream-cheese icing and only went for the ones topped with buttercream?
     Was Clongarvin ready for mascarpone frosting?
    “Stop.”
    Hannah looked at her mother. “Stop what? I’m not doing anything.”
    “You’re worrying. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
    “I can’t help it; my stomach’s in a knot. I think I might get sick. I feel like I’ve been up for hours.”
    “That’s because you have. Did you get any sleep last night?”
    “Not much. And the kitchen looks like a bomb hit it.”
    “Don’t mind the kitchen—I’ll give you a hand to tidy up this evening. I hope you had some breakfast.”
    She shook her head. “Couldn’t—I’d definitely have thrown up.”
    Geraldine regarded her daughter with concern. “I should have brought sandwiches. I’ll run out for some in a while. You have
     to eat, whether you feel like it or not.”
    “I know…maybe later.” Hannah tweaked one of the cupcakes on the display stand. “Does this look okay?”
    They sat in individual wire circles that curled upward from the central branch. Each cupcake was skewered with a wooden cocktail
     stick to which a brightly colored tag was attached.
    “They look great, like a bouquet of flowers. All those lovely colors.”
    “I was sure I’d never get them all iced; it took much longer than I thought. Just as well I gave myself plenty of time.” She
     darted a glance at the clock on the wall. “God, it’s five to nine already.”
    “Which means we have five minutes.” Geraldine disappeared through the door that led to the back. “I’m putting on the kettle,”
     she called.
    Hannah stared after her. “It’s five to nine.”
    “And the place