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were seated at a table in the courtyard of the restaurant Margo caught the scent of lilacs. They were served by a waitress who was both pleasant and efficient, a welcome change from the sullen crowd usually employed by The James.
    B.B. explained why she had asked them to join her as soon as their salads were served and Margo was flattered that B.B. had chosen her to design the cluster housing and grateful for the opportunity to participate in the joint business venture. If the deal took off it could mean big money. Margo got by on her salary and commissions, had even managed to save a little, but she wasn’t exactly rolling in it. Freddy’s child support payments helped, but she couldn’t count on them after the kids went off to college, nor did she want to.
    Several times during lunch B.B. put her hand to her head and closed her eyes, but Margo did not find that unusual. B.B. often seemed to be someplace else, even when she was talking to you, even when it was business.
    They lingered over their coffee until B.B. checked her watch and said, “I’ve got to get back to the office.” She paid the check and the three of them walked out of the restaurant. But before they reached the corner B.B. put her hand to her head again and swooned, as if she were about to keel over. Too much wine, Margo thought.
    “Are you all right?” Clare asked, grabbing her.
    “No,” B.B. said quietly. And then she broke away from Clare and flung her purse into the street, shouting, “No, goddamn it, I am not all right!” The contents of her purse spilled out, a bottle of Opium smashing at Margo’s feet, lipsticks rolling under cars, a hairbrush, a notebook, a pocket calculator, an envelope, all scattered on the ground. “I wish he were dead!” B.B. yelled.
    “Who?” Margo and Clare asked at the same time.
    “My ex-husband, the fucking bastard!”
    Margo was stunned. Until that day she had never seen B.B. react emotionally to anything. And that was the first she had heard of Andrew Broder.
    F IVE DAYS LATER Clare had called Margo, asking if she knew how to make chicken soup, because B.B. had not eaten anything but tea and Jell-O since climbing into bed on the afternoon of their lunch.
    “She says the only thing she wants to eat is the kind of chicken soup her mother used to make when she was a little girl. Jewish chicken soup. She says her father told her it would cure anything except warts and he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t cure those too. Do you know how to make it, Margo?”
    “I haven’t made chicken soup in years,” Margo said, “but I could call my mother. I think the secret is in the kind of chicken you use.”
    “Let’s try it,” Clare said. “Otherwise I’m afraid she’s going to wind up in the hospital.”
    That night Margo phoned her mother in New York. Her mother was on her way to the ballet at Lincoln Center, but she was delighted that Margo wanted to make chicken soup and she explained how to do it, step by step, reminding Margo to use only a pullet, enough dill, and not to forget the parsnip.
    On Saturday morning Margo shopped early. She came home and set the ingredients on her kitchen counter. The house was quiet. Stuart was at work, churning out ice cream, and Michelle was still asleep. Margo washed her hands at the kitchen sink, dried them with a paper towel, rolled up her sleeves, and soon the aroma of her childhood filled the house.
    When Michelle came up to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sniffed around and asked, “What are you doing, Mother?”
    “Making chicken soup.”
    “Chicken soup?”
    “Yes. B.B. isn’t feeling well. It’s for her.”
    “You never make soup for me when I’m not feeling well.”
    “I thought you don’t like homemade chicken soup, Michelle. I thought you said the little particles of fat floating on top make you nauseous. That’s why you always ask for Lipton’s when you’re sick.”
    “I like it fine when it’s cooked with rice,” Michelle said.