I nod, flipping through the piles on my desk. “Could you call security for me? There’s a junker car parked in my spot. It needs to be towed.”

Both hands fly to her mouth. “It’s my car! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were coming in, and your spot is so much closer to the door than mine!”

“All right, no problem, but could you move it before my meter expires?”

“I’ll do it right now.” She bolts out the door.

This is the first time I’ve been completely alone in weeks. And right on cue, I hear the faint sounds of an infant working up to fuss. The receptionist appears at the door, wheeling the stroller.

“Um, Chloe?”

“Thanks, Hayley.”

“And there’s a client here to see Carrie about her party? But Carrie just ran out. What should I tell her?”

“I’ll meet with her. You can send her in.”

I pick up the now-outraged Holly, and pull a bottle and a burp towel out of the bag. All sorts of interesting and unusual sounds can be heard in the halls of O, but a crying baby is completely new.

As I’m trying to settle in my chair for Holly’s feeding, Hayley reappears. Behind her is a slightly heavy woman in a white skirt and a red-and-hot-pink silk halter. She’s not tall, but her four-inch fuchsia heels add height. She is wearing so much heavy gold jewelry, I don’t know how she stands up under the weight. Her dark brown hair has clearly just been blown out.

“This is Ms. Silverman,” Hayley announces. “Ms. Silverman, this is Chloe...”

I attempt to stand up, but drop the bottle in my hand, which must not have been closed tightly, because the top pops off and formula makes a thick greyish puddle on the carpet. Holly cries louder.

Ms. Silverman takes an involuntary step back.

“Please come in,” I call over the noise. My hair has come loose and is hanging in my face as I try to mop up the mess with the burp towel. “This will just take a second, and then we can talk. Please sit down.”

She sits, carefully, looking at the chair seat first. I get out another bottle and sit back down with Holly. Mercifully, silence falls.

“I’m so sorry,” I start. “I’m a new mother, and this is the first time I’ve brought the baby to work. Just need to get into a routine here. Let’s talk about your party tonight.”

She looks at me doubtfully. “I have twenty-five friends coming,” she begins. “Starting at 5:00, for spa services, then drinks, dinner, and entertainment. I want everything to be perfect. You know, the fourth space? Rest, relax, indulge? You can handle this, right?”

At those words, my mind goes blank. Rest. Relax. Indulge.

“I’m getting a divorce,” she continues. “We’re celebrating my new life, my freedom. From that lying, cheating, egotistical, high-maintenance alcoholic I was married to.”

“I know the type,” I mutter.

“Seven years! Seven years of waiting for him to come home at night! Finding thongs in his pockets, scratches on his back, lipstick in places it should not be! And lately he always smells of lemon verbena perfume, when I wear Chanel No. 5! Never marry a lawyer, that’s my advice. They know how to hide the truth. For a while, anyway.” She makes a bitter sound. “But now I’m free.”

Lemon verbena perfume? Lawyers? I look at her closely. But I don’t know anyone named Silverman.

“So tonight has to be perfect. I don’t care what it costs. Now that I don’t have to pay for Joe’s expenses anymore, my money is my own. Can I see the menu, please?”

I just stare at her. I do not move. I do not breathe. If I had a paper bag, I would put it over my head.

Joe.

“Of course, Ms...Silverman? Let me see if Carrie is back at her desk. She’s been managing your event.”

“Silverman is my maiden name. I’m taking it back. I’m not really used to it yet.” She smiles, a bit shyly.

“Carrie?” I say into the phone. “Can you come in here, please, and bring Ms… Silverman’s… information.”

Immediately there’s a quick knock on my door frame, but it’s Henry. Shockingly, he is dressed in street clothes, khaki pants, a button-down shirt, my god, even a belt. Behind him is Ryan. Henry half-pulls, half-pushes Ryan into the room. He is wearing a Captain America outfit.

Minus most of the costume.

Ryan is wearing a mask, a red, white and blue shoelace thong, and he is holding a shield.

Henry is beaming with pride. Ryan looks miserable and murderous at the same time.

“We’ve got the costumes,” Henry announces. “Carrie sent us in to show you. There wasn’t a lot of time, but I think we’ve nailed it.”

Our client rises to her feet and circles Ryan with obvious approval.

“This is fantastic!” she breathes.

Ryan perks up slightly. I swear the tattoos on one arm swell of their own accord.

Henry holds out a hand. “Henry Holliday,” he says smoothly. “O’s master masseur and costume designer.”

Oh please.

“Wait until you see Iron Man.” Henry winks.

I hold back my shudder.

So does poor Ryan.

The client puts her manicured hand in his, looking up. Way up. “I’m Marcy Silverman.”

And there you have it. Marcy. Confirmed.

On my first visit back to O, I am helping Joe’s wife arrange her divorce party. While feeding my baby. You can’t make this stuff up.

And I haven’t had my eyebrows threaded in weeks.

Holly has stopped taking her bottle, about halfway through. I raise her to my shoulder and rub her back while watching Henry and Marcy discuss what the servers will wear. Or not wear. Henry is sketching something on a pad. He uses an economy of strokes.

Holly, good girl that she is, produces an impressive belch. There’s a brief pause. And I feel something warm running down my shoulder and neck. And back.

Where the hell is Carrie?

The office intercom speaks: Chloe Browne, you have a call on Line Two.

Without thinking, I reach for the phone, but before I can pick it up Marcy turns around. She blinks, and then her eyes travel from me, to Holly, to the spit-up formula splashed all over my dress.

“You’re Chloe Browne?” she asks in obvious disbelief.

“Um,” I say definitively. “Well. Um, yes?”

“That is very strange,” Marcy says slowly. “Very coincidental.”