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“The way Grandma used to make it.”
    “Which Grandma?” Margo said. “Grandma Sampson or Grandma Belle?”
    “Grandma Belle,” Michelle said. “Grandma Sampson used to make vegetable soup for me and she always strained it so I wouldn’t gag on the vegetables.”
    “Oh, that’s right,” Margo said and she laughed.
    “So what’s wrong with B.B.?”
    “She’s depressed. Her former husband is coming to town unexpectedly.”
    “You mean the Brat’s father?”
    “Sara’s not a brat, Michelle.”
    “You don’t know because you never babysat her.”
    “Well, that’s true. But she’s older now.”
    “I doubt that makes much difference.”
    “Michelle, you’re so hard on people. Why can’t you give them a chance?”
    “Me . . . hard? Come off it, Mother.” She grabbed a carrot from the refrigerator and stalked out of the kitchen.
    “Is that all you’re having for breakfast?” Margo called.
    “Carrots are extremely nutritious.”
    Late that afternoon Margo tasted the soup. She wasn’t sure if she had put in enough dill, but it certainly wasn’t bad. She was pleased. She had sworn off everyday cooking when she’d left Freddy, but now she found that cooking could be fun if nobody pressured her. And her kids had learned to cook too.
    That night Margo and Clare arrived at B.B.’s house with supper. Margo brought the chicken soup and Clare brought a salad, french bread, and a bottle of white wine. B.B. was sitting up in bed, wearing a white eyelet robe, her hair pulled back and tied with a ribbon. She looked as fragile and beautiful as Camille on her death bed. She made Margo feel shlumpy in her jeans and plaid shirt. Everything in B.B.’s house was as white and delicate as she was. There were fresh flowers in every room, even the bathrooms. Her house made Margo want to go home to clean, scrub, and redecorate.
    B.B. laughed over the chicken soup. “It’s delicious,” she said. “It’s just like my mother’s.” She finished her first bowl and asked for another. “I’m going to get out of bed tomorrow,” she told them. “And on Monday I’m going back to the office. I may even go to see Thorny Abrams . . . just for advice.”
    Thorny Abrams was one of Boulder’s many shrinks. Margo had worked on a solar addition to his house last year. His wife, Marybeth, could never make up her mind about anything, so plans for the addition had to be reworked seven times. Thorny would say, It’s up to Marybeth. Marybeth would look forlorn and say, You know I can’t make decisions, Thorny.
    “And Richard Haver is looking into the law for me,” B.B. continued. “It may be that I don’t have to let Andrew have Sara at all. We’ve got an agreement, you know . . . and it calls for two weeks at Christmas, Easter vacation, and one month every summer. That’s it. So if he comes to town and isn’t allowed to see Sara, then surely he won’t stay.” She looked from Margo to Clare. “I mean, why would he stay under those circumstances?”
    A WEEK AFTER THAT B.B. had phoned Margo, asking her to meet for a drink after work at the Boulderado.
    “I’ll get right to the point,” B.B. said as soon as they had ordered Perriers. “Do you know if the Hathaway apartment is available?”
    “I haven’t seen anyone in it lately,” Margo told her. “They usually rent it to university people for the summer.”
    “I’d like you to find out if it is available,” B.B. said, “and if it is, I’d like you to secure it in the name of Andrew Broder, for three months beginning the third week in August, at say three hundred and fifty dollars a month.”
    “You’re going to find him a place to live?” Margo asked.
    “I’ve decided that’s the best way to deal with it,” B.B. said.
    “It sounds tricky to me. Are you sure you want to get involved? Why don’t you let him find his own place?”
    “Because if Sara’s going to spend any time with him I want her in a decent neighborhood. If I leave it up to