Maggie held up a hand. “No. It’s okay,” she said and maybe the third glass of wine had gotten to her then because the thing that had been growing inside her for a while took shape. Maggie looked at their faces: John’s, smug and Sylvie’s, despera

. . . our fear of the end of the world is mitigated by the necessity of finding black leather coats we can afford. I mention this because every one I know except Michelle owns such a coat or jacket. For her, this wardrobe omission is a source of pride