“Wait, what are we talking about? Like, sex?” Charmaine again.

“Anything. Everything,” says Ariana seriously. “Give it all.” She gets up and goes over to her bag in the corner and takes out her video camera. Lately she’s been taking videos. She likes capturing expressions, she told me once, especially the way people look when they’re talking about love, so she might do a whole documentary on that. She has a theory that people can fall in love with anyone at all, simply by looking into their eyes for fifteen whole minutes without speaking. She’d like to do a documentary about that, too.

As usual when I listen to Ariana, I’m reminded of Blix, who would likely have felt exactly the same way. Blix danced with every single person at my wedding to Noah, her grandnephew—men, women, children, waitstaff, potted plants. I can still see her glowing face as she spun around on the dance floor—dressed, in fact, a lot like Ariana, now that I think of it, all those layers of colors and fabrics. (Maybe not as much bare belly showing.) The day I met Blix she told me quite happily that she had walked away from two husbands on account of them boring her. No other reason. I told her I didn’t know you were allowed to do that, leave somebody simply on the grounds of boredom—and she said that of course you were; why, being bored for your whole life would be the worst thing that could ever happen to a person! You couldn’t live like that! You had a responsibility to at least save your own life, didn’t you? Didn’t it improve the planet if you were happy?

That might have been the moment I fell in love with Blix. The moment that changed the course of my life.

Later, I’m standing at the counter, clipping thorns off a new shipment of roses, when my mom calls. The Frippery is filled today with some of the regulars: Anxious Toby, who is adorable in spite of the fact that his forehead is always lined with worry and also that he wears his hair in a man bun, and Lola, who comes in to pile some of her abundant love on me, and Ernst the Screenplay Guy. The Amazings are now doing some yoga poses while a woman in a turban and a long dress, a newcomer, is playing the flute.

“Hey! How are you?” I say to my mom. “I’m just here at work, trimming some roses. I was going to call you later.”

“Oh, no, I get it that you’re busy. I’ve heard about people who have to work for a living. Not that I have ever had the pleasure—I’ve always been ‘the kept little woman at home!’ As you know. Holly Housewife. Or something. Donna Reed maybe.”

There is something so weird about her voice, all this angry cheer. I keep silent. She liked staying home, didn’t she? She was one of those moms who did everything for my sister and me. Drove us to baton-twirling lessons and cheerleading lessons and band practices. Folded laundry. Knew how to make little packets of the bedsheets before she put them in the linen closet, curling the ends together just so, smoothing them so tightly it was almost like they’d been ironed. She sewed our clothes, whether we wanted her to or not. (We mostly did not.) She made our friends welcome. She always said she felt sorry for the moms who had to work.

“Oh, come on,” she says. “Laugh. I’m telling jokes.”

I fake a laugh. “So. How . . . are you?”

“I’m fine, I guess. So listen, you’re busy, but I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Well, here it is. Hi. My voice. La, la, la, la.”

“I also need to hear about what you do.”

“What I do? The flower shop, you mean?”

“No, not the flower shop! I understand what a flower shop is. I want to know about the magic. The matchmaking.”

She lowers her voice when she says the word magic like it might be overheard by her minister or, worse, some of her neighbors. Millie MacGraw is a decent, law-abiding Florida woman, fifty-nine years young (as she would say), and she’s known for her loads of friends and her meat loaf recipe and the fact that she can swim a mile without even getting winded. She has let me know time and time again that she doesn’t think much of magic—she’s more a believer in hard work and letting time pass because time heals all things—and she certainly doesn’t believe in matchmaking magic. She’s a down-to-earth woman who gives practical advice to strangers in grocery stores and is always the first one to take over casseroles and coffee cakes when any of her many friends is having trouble. Her superpower is that she can talk cops out of parking tickets. Which she is always getting because she parks with impunity wherever she likes.

“Oh,” I say. “Well. The magic. Not sure I can explain the magic, you know.” I peek through the door at the sun beaming into the Frippery, where Lola is rolling oatmeal-colored yarn into a ball, and where Ariana is now doing a handstand.

“Well, then, any of that love stuff you do. You know. I know that that woman, Blix whatever, left you her house because she had the sight or some such thing, and I assume she thought you did, too, and that’s why she just gave it to you out of the blue, really. And Natalie said something the other night about how you’ve really become a sought-after matchmaker now. She said you even introduced her to Brian, way back when you were in college.”

“Oh,” I say lightly. “Really? Natalie said that? Well. Yeah. That happened.”

“So . . . who do you make matches for? Besides Natalie.”

“Oh, various people. People who need to know that somebody’s out there for them, I guess.”

“And . . . so how do you know?”

“Well, I guess I see sparkles.”

“You guess?”

“No, I know. I see sparkles.”

“You see sparkles.”

“Yes.”

“In the air? In your head? Where?”

“In the air, I guess. All around the . . . people.”

“Huh,” she says, and then she falls silent.

“Yeah, so that’s pretty much it, Mom. So what’s going on?”

“Well,” she says. There’s a pause that is borderline alarming. “I don’t know. I think I might be a little bit in need of something just now. Can you send any sparkles my way, do you think? I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I just—” Her voice breaks off.

“What? Oh my goodness, Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Probably nothing. I’m just a little down, I think. Your father and I—well, you know how he is. Never wants to do anything, never wants to go anywhere. Just wants to sit in his easy chair every night falling asleep to the news. I shouldn’t bother you with this. It’s just that—Marnie, I don’t think I can do this for the rest of my life. I’ll tell you the truth, if I’d known this was what marriage was going to turn out to be about, I never would have signed on for it in the first place.”

“Oh!” I say.

Then she apparently realizes what she’s said, because she backs up a little. “Not that I regret having you kids,” she says. “But now with everybody grown up and gone and even Natalie’s kids not needing me so much since they’re in day care, I tell you, I just want to get the hell out. I’m sick to death of making meat loaf for that man. Forty-something years of meat loaf every Thursday night! What was I thinking, signing up for a lifetime of that?”

“Well.” I pause. I can’t think of anything else to say. Is this where I confide that I think I might be pregnant? And that I would really appreciate it if she would figure things out with my father because he’s my father, and she always acted like she liked taking care of him and making meat loaf? And that, by the way, all I want right now is to get married and have a family, and I’d like it if she would please stop making it sound so terrible.