“Grieving doesn’t make you imperfect,” Delia said quietly, as Bert came back out to the van, adjusting one of the carts inside. “It makes you human. We all deal with things differently, Macy. Your mom is missing your dad in her own way, every day. Maybe you should ask her about it.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t even bring him up. I tried this morning for the first time in ages, and she just shut down.”

“Then try again.” She moved closer to me, putting an arm around my shoulder. “Look, everyone mourns at their own pace. Maybe you’re just a little bit ahead of her, but she’ll get to you eventually. The important thing is that you keep trying to talk to each other, even if it’s difficult at first. It gets easier. I promise.”

I felt so tired all of a sudden that I just relaxed into her shoulder, leaning my head there. She smoothed her hand over my hair, saying nothing. “Thank you,” I said.

“Oh, sweetie,” she replied, her voice vibrating under my cheek. “You’re so welcome.”

We sat there like that, not talking, for a good minute or two. Then, from the garage, we heard it.

“Gotcha!”

It was Bert who shrieked in response to this. I knew it instantly.

Delia sighed loudly. “Honestly,” she said.

“That’s ten,” I heard Wes say, and Bert grumbled something I couldn’t make out in return. “And counting.”

Once we got to the party, our good-luck trend continued. It seemed at first that we were off to a normal start, when we arrived to find that the large gas grills Delia had ordered from her equipment company would not, no matter how many times Wes tried, ignite with any sort of flame.

“Oh, my God!” she was hissing at me as people started arriving. “This is a cookout. A cookout. You have to cook outside. It’s part of the definition!”

“Delia, just—”

And then, suddenly, there was a whoosh, and we had fire. It turned out that the gas tanks just hadn’t been hooked up. No problem.

Then, about an hour later, as I was doing a last round of appetizers before the grilled items came out, Bert noticed that we’d only brought one case of hamburger patties instead of two, which left us about, oh, a hundred or so short.

“Okay,” Delia said, putting her hands to her face, “God, just let me think . . . think . . .”

“What’s wrong?” Wes said as he passed through, picking up more ginger ale for the bar.

“We didn’t bring enough hamburgers,” I told him. To Delia I said, “Look, it’s fine, most people probably won’t even—”

“Three cases isn’t enough?” Wes said.

Delia took her hands off her face. “There were supposed to be two,” she said, speaking slowly.

“You said three,” he told her. “I remember.”

“I said two,” she said, sounding out the words carefully.

“I don’t think so.”

“Two!” Delia held up two fingers, waving them in the air. “Two boxes is what I said.”

“But there are three,” he told her, speaking equally slowly. “One in the first cart, two in the cooler. Go check. They’re there.”

I did, and they were. Not only were we not scrambling for beef, we had a surplus. And that wasn’t all. Bert and I almost collided and spilled condiments all over each other, but I was able to step aside at the last second, disaster averted. The ice cream scoopers were nowhere to be found, until they magically appeared, in the drawer beneath where they were supposed to be. And so on.

“I’m telling you,” Delia said to me later, as we stood in the back of the kitchen, surveying the yard, which was full of happy, well-fed people enjoying food, beverage, and each other’s company without incident, “this just makes me very nervous.”

“Delia,” I said, watching as Wes poured a glass of wine for a woman in a strappy sundress who was gesturing grandly, talking to him. He was just nodding, in an oh-sure-absolutely way, as if what she was saying was fascinating. As he bent down to scoop ice though, out of her sight, I saw him roll his eyes.

“I know, I know.” She chewed on her pinkie nail. “It’s just so weird. Everything is going too well.”

“Maybe you’ve just earned it,” I offered. “You know, the cumulative effect of all those bad nights.”

“Maybe,” she said. “I just wish we’d have one little mishap. It would be reassuring.”

The weirdest thing was, I could see her point. Once, this sort of night had been all I aspired to, everything going like clockwork, just perfect. But now it was a little eerie. Not to mention, well, boring.

I couldn’t help but think, though, as the hour crept from four to four-thirty to five, that maybe this was a trend that could work in my favor. After all, in about a half hour I’d get dropped off at the Commons, where I’d have to face my mother and explain quitting the info desk. The closer it got, the more nervous I became. Each time my stomach jumped, though, I reminded myself of what Delia had said to me, about how it might be hard to tell my mother how I really felt, but I had to try anyway. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was a start. And like my dad always said, the first step is always the hardest.

I was mulling over this as I stood by the buffet, spatula in hand, when a hand blurred across my vision. “Hello?” Wes said, as I blinked, looking at him. “Man, where were you?”