Chapter ONE

I PEER INTO THE MIRROR in Kate’s office, trying to convince myself that the never-before-seen spot on my cheek is a crumb of chocolate cake left over from lunch. Though come to think of it, I didn’t have chocolate cake for lunch. I poke at it several times, wondering if it’s an age spot. But I’m much too young for that, aren’t I?

“What are you doing?” asks Kate, as I lean in closer and start rubbing the blotch with my finger.

“Trying to get this off my face,” I tell her. “Come here and figure out what it is. You’re a skin doctor.” Not just any skin doctor. My best friend Dr. Kate Steele is New York’s “Derm Darling” of the moment, if you believe the New York Post. And who doesn’t?

“What am I looking at?” Kate asks, walking toward me, her four-inch stilettos clicking decisively on the highly polished wooden floor. For a moment I worry that she might slip, but no, this is Kate, the woman who could climb Kilimanjaro in Manolos and make it back to base camp without a wrinkle in her impeccable Escada suit. I love her anyway. Maybe because I’ve known her since seventh grade when she had braces on her teeth—the last time she was anything less than perfect.

“The spot on my face. It’s the size of Texas,” I say.

“Don’t exaggerate, Sara. It’s no bigger than Houston,” Kate says, as if that should make me feel better. “Here, let me fix it.”

That’s my Kate. Can always solve everything. What they didn’t teach her at Harvard Medical School, she learned at the Clinique counter. And there’s real science behind her beauty tricks—not just smoke and mirrors.

Well, most of the time. Now she simply adjusts a digital read-out on the mirror, and suddenly the offending spot practically disappears.

“I use this for surgery,” Kate explains. “It magnifies everything forty times.”

“Then let’s try to aim it at my bank account,” I quip.

Kate laughs, and clears away our empty salad containers and iced-tea cups. We were supposed to have lunch at Nobu but couldn’t bring ourselves to move from Kate’s cool, comfy office—especially after hearing that the heat-humidity index hit 110. Apparently, New York weather-men figure the actual temperature won’t make you feel hot enough, so they invented this new calculation. Personally, I can sweat just fine at ninety-six.

While Kate organizes some files, I surreptitiously flick the mirror back up to forty times magnification, this time to make myself miserable by studying more of my frighteningly flagrant flaws. Crow’s feet deeper than Barry White’s voice. Laugh lines that aren’t very funny. Damn Marx Brothers have aged me by five years. And another five for admitting I watch them.

Kate notices that I’m staring at myself, hypnotized by my reflection. She strides over and with one quick motion unplugs the mirror, swiftly disconnecting me from my source of discontent.

“What’s with you?” she asks, looking at me and shaking her head. “You’re as insecure as Kennedy airport.”

“True,” I admit. I had a fair amount of confidence at twenty, but now that I’m twice as old, I seem to have half as much. Despite the fact that the two men in my life think I’m beautiful. Dylan, the most wonderful seven-year-old son in the world. And Bradford, the best—gulp—fiancé in—well, let’s say America. After my divorce, I vowed that I’d never get married again. But handsome, Park-Avenue-born Bradford finally convinced me that I was his one and only—the funny, sexy, down-to-earth fifth-grade art teacher he loved. And he threw in a five-carat diamond ring to prove it.

Kate pulls out a gold compact mirror and as she runs a brush through her hair, I notice her licking her lips and smiling. And why not? She could be the only woman I know who doesn’t find something wrong with herself every time she looks. Nobody else does either. Glowing porcelain skin, clear blue eyes and a heart-shaped face framed by cascading waves of auburn hair. Not to mention her curvy slim body and her perfectly sculpted arms. And the tiniest waist since Vivien Leigh.

Still, maybe there’s something. “Is there anything about yourself you wish you could change?” I ask curiously.

“My address,” says Kate, snapping shut the compact and slipping it into the top drawer of her Mies van der Rohe desk. “I love my office, but I wish I were right on Fifth Avenue instead of half a block away. I could charge fifty dollars more a visit.”

“I meant anything about your face or body,” I say, wondering how Kate could possibly charge any more for a visit than she already does.

“Are you trying to tell me something, darling?” Kate asks. “I know you liked me as a blonde, but I’m not doing that again. I was getting way too much attention. I couldn’t walk down the street without tripping over guys.” She grins, so I think she’s joking. But I’m not sure.

“There are a few changes I’d make,” I say.

“In me?” Kate asks, surprised.

“No, in me. Beginning with my boring button nose and going down to my baggy knees.”

“So you have no complaints between your knees and your toes,” Kate points out optimistically.

“Thanks for reminding me about my toes,” I say. “I turned forty and they turned crooked.”

I study my feet in the Miu Miu sandals that I bought last week. Why pay full price when they go on sale in July and you still have a whole month and a half to wear them? Of course the only color they had left was purple, but I can compromise. They don’t look half-bad with my yellow skirt. Especially if you like Easter eggs.

“There’s surgery for that,” says Kate as nonchalantly as if she’s recommending a new brand of no-chip nail polish. “One of my celebrity patients had it. Jimmy Choo refused to send over any more free sandals unless she straightened out her toes.”

“I don’t even want to think about what she’d have to do to get a free dress,” I say, bending over to play with the little bump on my big toe.

“Nothing wrong with people trying to make themselves look better,” Kate says. “I help them do it every day. Collagen, Restylane, a blast of oxygen. When are you going to let me work my wonders on you, darling? You can’t be an Ivory girl forever.”

“Yes I can. Somebody besides Barbara Bush has to look her age. It’s my final stand as a woman of integrity.” Kate and I have this conversation at least once a month. Despite my protests, my deepest, darkest secret is that I’m comforted knowing my best friend Doctor Kate is never more than a Botox shot away. And considering how I look this afternoon, I might have to give in and get my first facial. Or my first face-lift.

I sigh and slump down in my chair. “Anyway, your beauty boosters can’t cure me today. Those new lines on my face didn’t just pop out on their own. I earned them. Worrying.”

Kate looks at me quizzically. “Worrying about what?”

“I don’t know,” I say, wishing I hadn’t brought the whole thing up.

“Everything okay with you and Bradford?”

“I guess so,” I say, fidgeting with my engagement ring. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Let’s see,” Kate says, ticking off the reasons on her fingers. “You have a new man. New house. New stepdaughter. A lot of changes. Puts you at about ninety-nine on the stress meter.”

“Maybe the adjustment’s harder than I thought it would be,” I say slowly. “It’s been just Dylan and me for so long that I know how to do life as a single mom. Suburban wife-to-be seems more complicated.”

“Yeah, those Lilly Pulitzer outfits you people wear out in the ’burbs are hard to coordinate,” Kate teases. “Pink shoes or green? Headband, no headband? Much simpler in the city—just black, black, black.”

“Okay, my life’s not that tough,” I say with a laugh. “And I feel like an idiot complaining. But Bradford’s under so much pressure at work and he gets home from Wall Street ridiculously late. He comes in the door, and I find myself griping about every little thing. I wish I could keep my mouth shut and be grateful just to have him.”

“He’s the one who should be grateful,” Kate says. She goes back and leans on the edge of her desk. “Bradford’s terrific but so are you. You two are perfect together. You’re just figuring out how to be with each other.”

“Sure.” I look down and play with the edge of my skirt. Which is black. The Stepford transformation isn’t quite complete. “But you know what? Starting relationships is easy. It’s keeping them that’s hard.”

Kate eyes me sharply. “Bradford has nothing in common with James.”

“I didn’t say he did,” I snap defensively.

“But that’s what you were thinking,” Kate says. “You’re about to get remarried. How could you not be thinking about your first husband?”

I sigh. “You’ve known me too long. But you’ve got to admit not everybody has her first husband run off to Patagonia. He claimed he had to go five thousand miles away to find himself. Six weeks of solitary soul-searching I could live with. But when I told him I was pregnant and he still didn’t come back, I figured out that finding himself meant losing me.”

“I know, sweetie,” Kate says kindly. And boy does she know. How many times have I been over this with her? “But it’s been long enough that you can look at the bright side. Most couples who divorce say, ‘Oh, we just grew apart.’ Your story is so much more interesting.”

“Maybe I’ll send it in to Chicken Soup for the Divorced Soul,” I say grumpily.

Kate shakes her head. “Hey, it was tough for you. No way around it. And you know how much I sympathized. Still do.”

I manage a smile. “You spent so much time listening to me you could have charged an hourly rate.”

“And the support continues,” Kate says. “I haven’t bought a Patagonia parka ever since. Small gesture on my part, but I switched to L.L. Bean.”

“Good thing James didn’t run off to Kashmir. That would have been too much of a sacrifice. I can’t imagine you trading your cashmere sweaters for Shetland.”

Kate comes over and hugs me comfortingly. “It’s going to be okay. Really. Bradford’s not going to Patagonia. Why would he? The International Monetary Fund never has meetings there. Anyway, he’s head over heels in love with you.”

“I know, I know,” I say. But do I really? Most days, yes. And for me, after all that’s happened, that’s not bad. “I swear, Kate, we’ll never have to talk about James again.”

“Yes we will, and that’s okay. But what can I do to cheer you up now?” She grins, trying one more time to offer me her own special brand of comfort. “A shot of vitamin C serum? Want to try one of my new lasers?”

“Ooh, yes. Searing off the top layer of my skin sounds like a real pick-me-up. How about lending me your credit card for half an hour instead?”

“If you promise not to go anywhere but Kmart.” Kate shakes her head. “Listen, here’s something even better. Want to see what my personal trainer has me do every morning to make myself feel good?”

“Whistle a happy tune?” I suggest. “Pop a Paxil?”

“Better,” says Kate. She strides over and opens a closet door behind her desk, revealing a full-length mirror. Standing in front of it, she pulls herself up to her full Manolo-enhanced height and takes a deep breath. “First Marco has me stand very straight and tuck in my tummy,” she says.

“You don’t have a tummy to tuck in,” I complain.

Kate ignores me and throws back her shoulders. “Marco says the secret is to tell yourself something enough times that you start to believe it’s true.”

“I’m rich, I’m rich, I’m rich,” I say.

“Stop being silly and come stand next to me,” Kate says. As if this whole thing isn’t silly enough.

I’m not quite ready to commit. “How much does Marco get for his brilliant advice?” I ask, trying to decide if it’s worth dragging myself over.

“Two-fifty an hour,” Kate says.

I figure out where the decimal point is and then gasp. “He’s rich, he’s rich, he’s rich,” I say. But I sidle over and stand next to her at the mirror.

“Okay,” says Kate, “Marco has me warm up with twenty presses, thirty pulls and forty curls. Then he likes me to cup my hands under my breasts.”

“He likes that?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “I bet he does.”

Kate shoots me a dirty look, insulted that I’m sullying her personal trainer’s pure motives. But Kate’s unstoppable. She takes one of her admittedly awesome breasts in each hand, looks herself square in the mirror and with a big smile proclaims, “Mine are spectacular!”

I look at her aghast.

“Come on, do it with me,” she says.

I dutifully move closer to Kate and cup my hands on top of hers.

“No, you idiot,” she says, swatting me away. “Each to her own.”

My own idea would be to get out of here. But Kate was nice enough to invite me here for lunch. And I just can’t disappoint anybody. So what the heck, I’ll do what she asks.

I point myself—and my breasts—toward the mirror.

“Mine are too small,” I complain, going for honesty over ego-boosting . . . “Mine are too big,” I add, moving my hands to my hips.

“Well mine are just right,” says Goldilocks—er, Kate. “And so are yours. If you’ll only say it.”

“Okay, I’ll say it,” I tell Kate, still trying to be agreeable. I stick out my chest, copy Kate’s stance, and try to imagine how Pamela Anderson must feel every morning.

“Mine are spectacular,” I say in a booming voice. But I immediately start laughing so hard that I collapse onto her couch.

Kate gives up and breaks into giggles alongside me.

“Sorry,” I say, still laughing so hard that I have to wipe away the tears from my cheeks. “I’m all for self-improvement. But maybe we should start with my knees.”

 

Four days later, my very pregnant friend Berni, the powerful Hollywood talent agent, is in my house, sprawled across the antique sofa that’s been in Bradford’s family since the Revolutionary War. Rumor is that after she finished the flag, Betsy Ross stitched the pillows herself.

Berni starts to get up, then leans back and groans dramatically. “It’s just too hard to move anymore,” she says. “I may lie here until the babies are born.”

“You’re not due for two more weeks,” I say, trying to banish the image of Berni messily popping out two babies in Bradford’s—now my—living room.

She groans again. “Just my luck. I’m forty-two and having twins. Who else but me carries to term?” Then she pauses and looks contrite. “I mean, I know that’s what you want. The bigger the babies the better. But UPS delivers faster than this, even at Christmas.” She tosses back her thick chestnut hair, which she tells me pregnancy has made even more lustrous. Fair trade-off? You get fat, your hair gets fat.

I bring Berni a glass of the alcohol-free punch I’m preparing for her baby shower, which she places on her shelf of a belly.

“Don’t get your jacket dirty,” I tell her, thinking I’ve never seen a bright tulip-pink Chanel jacket in quite that size before. Or an outfit quite like Berni’s. She’s pulled on a pilled pair of stretch black pregnancy pants. And peeking out from under the Chanel jacket is a white T-shirt with a picture of a muffin and the slogan bun in the oven! As if anybody might not know.

“I had the people at Chanel Scotchguard it. I had everything Scotchguarded—my clothes, the carpets, the couches, everything. All done. I’ve baby-proofed the house.”

To the ordinary person, baby-proofing involves locking cabinets, covering sockets and fencing off staircases. But I’m finding there’s nothing ordinary about Berni.

“Did you get that baby nurse you wanted?” I ask, hitting on our most-talked-about topic of the month.

“No, I couldn’t meet her terms,” Berni says dispiritedly. “She demanded her own bedroom and bathroom suite. No problem since I have plenty of them. But then she wanted her own driver and a clothing allowance. Honestly, that’s a better deal than I negotiated for Sandra Bullock.”

“Really? You represented her, too?”

“Well, on her first deal. I discovered Sandy, you know,” she tells me.

I carry a platter over and place it down in front of Berni, whom I met just three months ago—when we both moved into the moneyed suburb of Hadley Farms on the very same day. Me, to settle in with Bradford. Berni, freshly relocated from the West Coast with her film-editor husband Aidan, to embark on her new career. Motherhood. Both of us were slightly terrified about starting our new lives and we connected immediately. Berni might have moved three thousand miles, but I was the one on unfamiliar ground—having left my little rent-controlled apartment in Greenwich Village for Bradford’s fancy sprawling house. And it wasn’t just the shrubs that scared me. Although I still don’t know how much you should feed a hydrangea.

“Do you miss Sandy?” I ask, using the nickname as if I, too, have known the plucky actress for years. “I mean, not just Sandy. Your whole L.A. life. It sounds like it was so glamorous.”

“It was,” Berni admits, looking down and rubbing her beach ball–sized belly. “All those famous clients and fabulous movie premieres. The parties. The private jets. The night Russell Crowe got drunk and told me he had a thing for older women like me.”

“Did he follow through?” I ask, probably sounding more like a magazine-reading fan than I should.

“I never gave him the chance,” Berni says dismissively. “Besides, all that seems so unimportant to me now. So superficial. How can any of that compare to bringing two precious new lives into the world? I finally know what matters.” She breaks into a beatific smile that would give Mona Lisa a run for her money.

I’ve heard this speech before. Now that she’s decided to chuck her high-powered career to be a stay-at-home mom, Berni talks about motherhood as if it’s the Second Coming. And in her case, having twins, the Second and Third Coming. She’s waited so long to be a parent that she’s treating it like her Next Big Project—and she’s expecting that heating formula will be as thrilling as creating the formula for the next box-office blockbuster. I’m doubtful, but who knows. There seem to be a lot of overachieving women lately who are trading the fast track for the cul-de-sac. Or in Berni’s case, for a ten-room Mediterranean mansion with a pool.

A couple of weeks ago, I asked Berni why she and Aidan—who’ve been married a dozen years—waited so long to have kids.

“Just an oversight,” she said, as if we were talking about how she’d walked out of Stop & Shop without buying a quart of milk. “I was so busy, I forgot.”

And now that she’s remembered, she’s throwing herself into it full throttle. As Berni told me, whining superstars are good preparation for dealing with twins.

“You must be hungry,” I say, offering her a fruit platter. “Have something.”

“I’m starved, but this isn’t going to do it for me,” she says, not even tempted by my pretty papaya or perfectly-cut kiwis. “Don’t you have any Oreos? Chips Ahoy? Mini Mint Milanos? Really, anything that says Pepperidge Farm on it will be okay. The twins need some sugar.”

“No, they don’t. How about some cheese?”

“Only if you have Cheez Whiz. At least I know that one’s safe. Can’t risk anything unpasteurized when you’re pregnant.”

“Camembert?” I offer.

“No!” she screams, horrified. “Blue veins are the worst.”

“They’ll go away after you deliver,” I promise, deadpan.

“Very funny,” says Berni. “You know I can’t eat blue-veined cheese. It could carry listeria. Same problem with pastrami. Salmon has PCBs. Canned tuna has mercury. And don’t get me started on cookie dough ice cream. Raw eggs.”

I’d forgotten how complicated pregnancy has become. Berni’s list of Things to Avoid While Pregnant is longer than Elle MacPherson’s legs. And it’s not just food. Without waiting a beat, Berni launches into her last-trimester lament.

“I’ve gone nine months without whitening my teeth, tanning my skin, or bleaching my hair. Staying away from chemicals is harder than you think. I nearly killed the Chem-Turf guy and all he did was park his truck across the street.” Berni pauses and squares her shoulders to make her most important announcement. “And don’t even talk to me about how I’m going to lose all this weight. Seventy pounds. I know they’re twins and a lot of it’s water weight. But what am I delivering—the Atlantic Ocean?”

I try to picture what Berni looked like before we both moved to Hadley Farms, our ultra-exclusive gated community just thirty-eight minutes north of the city. Not thirty-nine, as everyone is quick to point out. As if one more minute from Manhattan would be the deal breaker. And who named this place, anyway? How can you call it “Farms” when there’s not a thoroughbred or a heifer in sight? Or even anyone making goat cheese. All anyone makes here is money.

“Anyway,” Berni continues, “maybe there’s hope. Sarah Jessica Parker’s giving me her personal trainer as a baby gift.”

“I guess that trumps the two silver spoons from Tiffany’s I bought for you.”

“Oh, stop. Nobody’s better than you,” she says, getting up and coming over to give me a generous hug. “You’re throwing me this baby shower. Way beyond the call. I can’t believe how lucky I am. I feel like we’ve been friends forever.”

“It’s just that last trimester that feels like it’s been forever,” I say, laughing and hugging her back. “But I feel the same.”

A chirping noise sounds in the apartment and Berni instinctively reaches for her cell phone. She holds it out and looks disappointed. “Not mine. I used to get sixty calls a day, but nobody calls a newly retired talent agent.” To me, that sounds like an improvement. But from Berni, it could be a complaint.

The chirping continues. Doorbell? Intercom? Smoke detector? Nothing so mundane. I head to the kitchen. Maybe it’s Bradford’s high-tech refrigerator that has Internet access, a DVD flat-screen and beeps when the tomatoes are overripe. Or the self-propelling Roomba robot vacuum cleaner that bleeps when anything gets in its way. It could be any one of a hundred gizmos since everything in Bradford’s designer kitchen chirps. The only thing missing is a parakeet.

Then I figure it out—the timer on the Viking stove. I rush over and pull out a tray of cheese puffs that haven’t puffed. Instead they’re flat and burned at the edges. I stare at them in disbelief. “This never happened to me before,” I tell Berni, who’s traipsed in behind me and is leaning against a wall in the breakfast nook that’s bigger than my whole West Village apartment. “In my old kitchen I had to bake in the toaster oven and everything was always perfect.”

“What you’ve sacrificed for love,” Berni says, making fun of me. She comes over, pops a puff in her mouth and makes a face. “Gross,” she says, spitting it out into a napkin. “In this case the sacrifice might have been too great.”

“I don’t think we’ll starve,” I say, dumping them into the garbage disposal and looking around at the counters piled high with trays of food I’ve spent two days preparing and managed not to burn.

Another chirp. Again Berni reaches for her phone, but over the intercom, from the main gate half a mile away, booms the voice of the guard. Not that we’re allowed to call him that. The Hadley Farms Community Handbook requires he be addressed as “The Doorman.” I thought I was moving out of Manhattan, but apparently everyone in this McMansioned community wants to pretend they’re still living on Fifth Avenue.

“Hey, girls, it’s Enrique,” says the doorman. “How ya doin’? Party’s about to begin. Two hot ladies here for you.”

“Send them over,” I say, back into the intercom. “And you don’t have to call for the rest.”

“If the next batch look like this I’m coming over, too,” he shoots back.

Berni looks amused. I turn away from the intercom and start to giggle. “Next to you, Enrique’s my favorite thing about Hadley Farms so far,” I tell her.

I go to the door to welcome the first arrivals. Enrique’s “hot women” turn out to be Berni’s sixty-four-year-old mother Erica and an agent colleague of Berni’s named Olivia Gilford, who’s decked out in a black python suit and enough gold chains to stymie Houdini.

“My god, you’re the size of an elephant,” Olivia says, greeting Berni and throwing her arms wide open to emphasize her point. “How can you stand being that big? Are you having second thoughts?”

“It’s a little late for that,” says Berni.

“Good thing you quit. If your clients saw you this way they’d die,” says Olivia. She heads over to grab a glass of wine from the bartender, hired for the afternoon from the hip New York employment agency Actors Behind Bars.

“What a bitch,” I whisper to Berni. “I can’t wait to meet the rest of your friends.”

“This one’s not a friend,” Bernie whispers back. “Rival. I invited her so I can keep an eye on her. If she’s here, she’s not out stealing my clients.”

“But . . .” I start to say.

“I know,” Berni interrupts. “I’m out of the game so I shouldn’t care anymore. But old habits die hard.”

Guests keep arriving, and the house starts to fill. Well, the foyer, anyway. The entire Rose Bowl Parade could march through this place and you’d hardly notice. The women grab for the Rosenthal china and begin filling their plates.

“What fabulous food,” says our pencil-slim Hadley Farms neighbor and community board president Priscilla, who looks like this could be her first meal in years.

“Yes, fabulous. Who catered?” asks another equally slim and aerobicized woman as she forks down my pesto pasta. It used to be that skinny women waltzed through parties nibbling a celery stalk or the occasional carrot stick. Now the bar’s higher. To be truly admired, you have to be a size two while still wolfing down everything but the custom drapes. Once upon a time the crème-de-la-thin wouldn’t be caught dead eating in public. Now they do nothing but.

Before I have the chance to take the credit for the catering, Priscilla interrupts. “I’d know this pecan chicken salad anywhere,” she says smugly. “It’s got to be Barefoot Contessa.”

“I would have said the same,” says the other woman, now intently nibbling at a beef teriyaki skewer, “but I detect just a hint of Glorious Food.”

“No, no,” says a third woman, now joining the fray. “The peach aphrodisiac salad just screams Colin Cowie. He sent something just like it to Barbados last year for our New Year’s party.”

By now I’m too embarrassed to admit that my hands have touched the food, but I am thinking there may be a career in this for me.

When we get to dessert, I invite the women to bring their plates into the library, where I offer a choice of coffees—Tahitian brew, Samoan simmer, or Costa Rican nugget. Talk about a coffee break. Feels like each cup should come with frequent flyer miles.

Berni sinks into the oversized winged-back chair ready to attack her enormous pile of presents. I’m expecting to see a lot of Baby Gap booties and stretchies. But as paper and ribbons go flying, it quickly becomes clear that Berni’s unwrapping a whole new level of baby must-haves. Two cashmere Burberry baby blankets. An eighteen-karat gold David Yurman bunny bracelet. A Swarovski crystal box for the tooth fairy—who apparently would never think to look under a plain pillow in Hadley Farms. A Louis Vuitton diaper-changing bag. Then come the alphabet blocks. Finally something the babies can play with—if you trust your toddler with Steuben crystal.

“My gift’s a little late,” says Olivia, looking worriedly at her watch and hurrying out of the room. Berni finishes opening her presents and somebody suggests making a hat out of the ribbons.

“Or we can play pin the rattle on the donkey,” offers Berni’s mother Erica energetically. “I did that at a baby shower just last week.”

But Olivia has another game in mind.

“Look who’s here!” she calls out gaily from the foyer, as she ushers in a six-foot-tall blond policeman.

“Did I do something wrong?” I ask, jumping up nervously. I can’t think what it would be. Maybe it’s against the law in this zip code to cater your own party.

“Not yet,” he says slyly. “Now where’s the birthday girl?”

“This is a baby shower,” I say, confused.

“Okay, the birth-ing girl,” he says jocularly. And then he tosses his hat in the air and bends over to grab something from his belt. Oh my god, his gun? Reflexively, I fling my hands into the air.

“Don’t shoot,” I plead. “I’m innocent.”

“But I’m not,” he says. And as if on cue, the house fills with P. Diddy wailing from a mini-CD player, “Girl I’m a Bad Boy.”

Our trusty patrolman starts unbuttoning his shirt and twirls his club in time to the music. I watch agog as the top comes off and he sends it flying into the crowd, revealing his bare, bronzed chest. Pretty buff, too—though why the heck are we looking at it?

Olivia has the answer.

“Happy shower!” she shouts to Berni, above the music. “My baby present to you—Patrolman Pete! The Cop Who Rocks!”

“Thank you, ma’am,” says Pete, who in one swift motion rips the Velcro seam on his pants and steps casually out of them. He sidles up to nine-month-pregnant Bernie and swivels his hips—and his red bikini underwear—as close to her as he can get. He winks broadly, plays provocatively with his nightstick and makes his intentions clear. “This officer is not a gentleman!” he says, removing the leather belt that’s still at his waist and snapping it suggestively.

I look around at my thirty guests. It’s a defining moment. One group, led by Olivia, is grinning, swaying to the music and waiting eagerly to see what happens next. Preferably to them. Next are the women who have a sudden need to clear away wineglasses, retrieve wayward wrapping or pick the lint off their skirts—anything but look at Pete. And then there’s Berni’s mother, who was only bargaining on a spirited game of pin the rattle on the donkey. But a spirited game of being pinned by Pete apparently has a certain allure, because she makes her way over to the edge of Berni’s chair, claiming her maternal right as heir to the throne.

Pete, catching her drift, bends over suggestively and places his hat jauntily on her head.

“You go, grandma!” Olivia cheers from the sidelines.

“Nobody feels like a grandma when I’m around!” Pete promises, letting out a whoop. He wiggles to the edge of Berni’s chair and grabs mother Erica onto his dance floor. He grinds his pelvis in time to the Maroon 5 CD now blaring, bumping hips with Berni’s mom on every rotation.

“Whooo!” she yelps, raising her own arms above her head. Then she drops them around Patrolman Pete’s neck and wriggles closer to his well-tanned body.

“I’m lovin’ this woman,” Pete hoots, pressing against her tightly.

Apparently, Berni thinks he may be doin’ too much lovin’, because she gets out of her chair. Up until now, Berni’s been a good sport, but this is her mother we’re talking about. The woman she’d like to think of as a virgin. And who no doubt feels the same about Berni, despite all evidence to the contrary. Daughters don’t want their mothers having sex and mothers don’t want their daughters having sex. And still we have a population explosion.

“Nice dancing, mom,” Berni says. And then in an effort to break up the happy couple, she uses her stomach as a wedge and plants herself between them. Patrolman Pete, though, misinterprets her move and thinks he’s scored a threesome. So what if the mother’s sixty-four and a little scrawny and the daughter’s nine months gone. By the time he recounts the afternoon’s activities to his buddies, those little details will drop by the wayside.

“Lovin’ this, loving both of you!” he says grinding lustfully now in all directions. Erica shimmies her hips, but Berni stands there like a stick. Or in her case, an oak tree.

“Loving time is just about over,” Berni says firmly. She takes the patrolman’s cap off her mom’s head and hands it back it to Pete. “Time to call it a wrap. Thanks for the memories.” And with that, she loops her arm through Pete’s elbow and escorts him toward the door. Make that drags him to the door, since he’s in no rush to leave.

“I paid for a full hour,” says Olivia petulantly. “Pete doesn’t have to go.”

“Yes he does,” says Berni. “You gotta know when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em.”

Olivia, who definitely comes down on the side of wanting to hold him, instead hands Pete her card. “I’m a talent agent. If you need anything, call me. Anything at all.” And I swear she bats her eyes.

For once, Berni doesn’t parry that she’s a talent agent, too.

With Pete gone, Berni’s mother and several other women head over to the bartender. Whether Pete’s gotten them interested in the only other man left in the room or they need to dull their senses is anybody’s guess. Olivia grabs a cosmopolitan and saunters over to Berni with a smug grin plastered on her face.

“This is soo good,” she says taking a long sip of her pink drink and pointing out just one more deprivation Berni must suffer in the name of motherhood. “It’s a shame you can’t drink. But didn’t you just love Pete? I figured a stripper was just what you needed since you probably can’t have any sex these days.”

“At least I did once,” Berni says, coming to her own defense.

“And she’ll have plenty more,” says Hadley Farms’ own Priscilla, joining the conversation.

“Not living here,” Olivia says scornfully. “From what I hear, everyone was upset when Sex and the City ended because sex in the suburbs ended a long time ago.”

“Not in this suburb,” Priscilla says with a wink. And then whispering to me, “Now that you live here you’ll find out what I mean.”

Maybe I should have studied the Hadley Farms Handbook more thoroughly.

A stream of women begin coming over to say their good-byes and linger to look one more time at the pile of gifts.

“My goodness, I just realized nobody gave you The Mozart Effect tapes,” one woman says in a concerned voice. “I’ll send some over as soon as I get home. You’ve got to start playing them the moment the babies are born if you really want to raise their IQ.”

“I’m not quite sure I want babies who are smarter than I am,” Berni says. “I was just planning on propping them up in front of the washing machine and seeing what happens.”

The woman doesn’t know whether to laugh or call the authorities. But Berni breaks out into a big grin. “Of course I have the Mozart baby tapes. I’ve been playing them to my tummy since the second trimester,” she says. “I swear one of the babies is already kicking in time to the harpsichord.”

After the bartender has packed up and all the guests have finally gone, I plop down into a chair. I feel a little guilty thinking about the sticky plates and mounds of pots piled up in the kitchen, but I’m too pooped to look at them.

“Did you have fun at the party?” I ask Berni, putting my feet up on the ottoman next to hers.

“So much fun. I can’t thank you enough. But that Olivia is some piece of work, huh? See why I’m glad to be getting out of the business? I’ll never know if she thought I’d like the stripper—or if she did it to torture me.”

I laugh. “I thought he was kind of cute,” I say. “But were you really upset?”

“Not by that,” she says with a sigh. “The party was perfect. I couldn’t be happier.” But she sighs again, this time even deeper. “It was a nice group of women, wasn’t it? I guess I was just disappointed that Cameron Diaz was a no-show. I know she’s in town and she said she’d stop by. In fact, none of Charlie’s Angels came. Olivia’s right. I guess I’m out of the game. Leave L.A. for five minutes and you’re off everybody’s speed dial.”

“You’re still on mine,” announces a bright voice from the hallway.

We both turn around to see Kate striding into the room in a sexy but still professional Michael Kors tulip skirt. She kisses me on the cheek and then deposits the huge cellophane-wrapped wicker basket she’s carrying next to Berni. Ever since I introduced them, they’ve become fast friends.

“Darling, I’m so sorry I’m late. I have the best reason. But I’ll save it,” Kate says, her porcelain skin looking slightly flushed.

“Tell me,” Berni says, cheering up. “Except if it involves good sex. I don’t think I can bear to hear about that right now.”

“Then I’ll definitely save it,” Kate says with a devilish laugh. “Now open your presents. You’ll need every one of them.”

Berni fumbles with the oversized pink-and-blue ribbons tied at the top. After the third try, she pushes the basket across the sofa. “Damn, you do it,” she says to Kate. “Even my fingers are bloated.”

Kate’s long, perfectly manicured hands make short work of the ribbons, revealing a tower of fancily packaged boxes, bottles, unguents and ointments.

“What are they?” Berni asks, picking up a shiny silver tube and looking at it quizzically.

“That one’s the beeswax belly salve,” says Kate. “Really good for stretch marks.”

“Wow,” says Berni. “Terrific. You can’t imagine how much I need that. Or maybe you can.” She laughs and picks up another bottle. “And this?”

“Eighty percent pure shea butter. For stretch marks. Lavender belly oil, ditto. And my very own concoction of aloe with vitamin E and extract of tamarind root. Doesn’t smell very good, but it’s really great . . .”

“. . . for stretch marks,” Berni finishes.

“Right,” says Kate happily.

I look at Kate dubiously. “So which one of them really works?”

“For stretch marks? Nothing,” she admits. “But rubbing lotions on your tummy three times a day is better than sitting around worrying about the delivery. Oh, and Berni, I also gave you some fabulous lotion for the babies. Keeps their skin soft.”

I thought that was the point about babies—they have naturally soft skin. But maybe without proper intervention, it’s all downhill after the first three months. No wonder I’m in trouble. I didn’t start using moisturizer until I was twenty-six.

I pick up a pack of teeny bottles with graceful stoppers in the lids. “What are these?” I ask.

“Aromatherapy,” Kate says. “Keeps the babies stress-free. Want to try?”

“Stress-free sounds good,” I say, dabbing a drop of oil on my wrist. “Could use some of that around here. Next time, bring some extras for Bradford.”

Berni looks up sharply at me. “Don’t tell me you’re having problems with Mr. Wonderful,” she says.

“Definitely not,” says Kate, answering for me. “No trouble in Paradise. Sara’s the happiest woman in the world.”

I nod. She’s right. Of course I am. Bradford’s the love of my life.