Closing the oven door, Daddy says, “Hmm. Well, I know she liked balsamic vinegar. A lot. A lot a lot.”

“Just on chicken?” Kitty asks.

“On everything, actually. Avocados, with butter on toast, tomatoes, steak.”

I file this away under Misc. Facts about M.

“Are you guys ready to eat?” Daddy asks. “I want to get this bird out while it’s still nice and juicy.”

“In a minute,” Kitty says, and literally a minute later the doorbell rings. Kitty springs into action. She comes back with Ms. Rothschild from across the street. She’s in skinny jeans and a black turtleneck sweater and high-heeled boots, a chunky black-and-gold necklace around her neck. Her mahogany brown hair is half up, half down. She’s carrying a wrapped present in her hands. Jamie Fox-Pickle’s puppy legs can’t get to her fast enough; he is sliding all over the place, wagging his little tail.

Laughing, she says, “Well, hello, Jamie.” She sets her gift on the counter and kneels down and pets him. “What’s up, everybody?”

“Hi, Ms. Rothschild,” I say.

“Trina!” Daddy says, surprised.

Ms. Rothschild lets out an awkward laugh. “Oh, did you not know I was coming? Kitty invited me when she was over with Jamie today. . . .” She reddens. “Kitty,” she chides.

“I did tell him—it’s just that Daddy’s absentminded,” Kitty says.

“Hm,” Ms. Rothschild says, giving her a look, which Kitty pretends not to see. “Well, thank you anyway!” Jamie starts jumping all over her, another of his bad habits. Ms. Rothschild sticks her knee out and Jamie settles down immediately. “Sit, Jamie.”

And then he actually sits! Daddy and I exchange an impressed look. Clearly Jamie needs to continue under Ms. Rothschild’s tutelage.

“Trina, what can I get you to drink?” Daddy asks her.

“I’ll have whatever’s open,” she says.

“I don’t have anything open, but I’m happy to open whatever you like—”

“Ms. Rothschild likes pinot grigio,” Kitty says. “With an ice cube.”

She turns even redder. “God, Kitty, I’m not a lush!” She turns to us and says, “I’ll have a small glass after work, but not every night.”

Daddy laughs. “I’ll put some white wine in the freezer. It’ll get cold soon.”

Kitty looks pleased as punch, and when Daddy and Ms. Rothschild go into the living room, I grab her by the collar and whisper, “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” she says, trying to squirm away.

“Is this a setup?” I hiss.

“So what if it is? They’d be a good match.”

Huh! “What makes you say that?”

Kitty ticks off her fingers. “She loves animals, she’s hot, she makes her own money, and I like her.”

Hmm. All of that does sound good. Plus she lives across the street, which is convenient.

“Do you think Ms. Rothschild watches documentaries?”

“Who cares about dusty old documentaries? He can watch them with you or Margot. The important thing is chemistry.” Kitty tries to jerk loose from my grip. “Let go of me so I can see if they have any!”

I release her collar. “No, don’t go in yet.” Kitty huffs and flounces away and I say meaningfully, “Let’s let it simmer for a minute.”

She stops short and then gives me an appreciative nod. “Let’s let it simmer,” she repeats, savoring the words.

Kitty is sawing her way through a piece of white meat, the only kind she’ll eat—she likes it sliced thin like deli meat, and Daddy tries but it always ends up kind of shredded and sad-looking. I think maybe I’ll get him an electric carving knife for this birthday. Personally, I like the thigh. I honestly don’t know why anyone would bother eating anything but thigh if they had the choice.

When Ms. Rothschild shakes some hot sauce on her chicken, Kitty’s eyes glow like a lightning bug. I make note of the way Ms. Rothschild laughs at Daddy’s corny jokes with sincerity. I also appreciate the way she goes wild for my snickerdoodles. I threw some frozen ones in the oven when Daddy put the coffee on.

“I love how this cookie is crunchy but also soft. You’re telling me you made this from scratch?”

“Always,” I tell her.

“Well, give me the recipe, girl.” Then she laughs. “Wait, don’t bother. I know my strengths, and baking is not one of them.”

“We’ll share with you anytime—we always have lots of cakes and cookies,” Kitty says, which is rich coming from her, because it’s not like Kitty ever helps. She only shows up for the fun parts, the decorating and eating.

I sneak a look at Daddy, who is placidly sipping his coffee. I sigh. He’s completely oblivious.

We all do the washing up and wrapping up of leftovers together, and it feels very natural. Without anyone telling her, Ms. Rothschild knows to hand-wash the wineglasses and not put them in the dishwasher, and on the first try she finds the aluminum foil and plastic wrap drawer. Which might say more about Margot’s organizational skills than Ms. Rothschild’s intuition, but still. I think I could see her fitting in with us pretty seamlessly. And, as I said, she does live across the street, which is convenient. People say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I think they’re wrong: Proximity makes the heart grow fonder.