"It's okay," Allie murmurs, holding me close and stroking my back. "Everything's all right now. You're safe. You're home."

"I'm sorry, Allie," I mumble, my mouth pressed against the sleeve of her puffy ski jacket.

"Sorry? For what?" She looks down and lifts my chin with one finger.

"For being so mean to you. On the phone. When I was away."

"Lydia, you were all stressed out. Don't you think I know that? It's okay. All is forgiven."

"Really?" I ask tearfully. Sometimes being loved so completely is almost too much to take. "You're not mad at me?"

"Of course not," says Allie. "Are you mad at me?"

"No."

"Well, then. I'm glad that's settled. Here." Allie digs into her pocket and pulls out my little wooden heart. "Want this?" she asks, offering it to me on the flat of her palm.

"Of course." I take back my charm and then unstrap the black leather band circling my wrist. "You can have this, too."

Allie buckles her grandfather's watch around her arm and then hand in hand we ride the escalator down to baggage claim, with me chattering away and Allie grinning from ear to ear, so happy to have her habladora back. Having slept for most of the day and still on West Coast time, I am not tired in the least, so I babble on as we wait at carousel number nine along with the rest of the pa.s.sengers who have just arrived from Chicago. Soon it is obvious that our luggage has been delayed, so we look around for a place to sit down but there isn't any. The terminal grows hot and stuffy despite the frigid temperature outside-right before we landed the pilot informed us that it was, in his words, a "balmy eleven degrees"-so Allie and I both open and remove our coats.

"Hey, you've lost weight." Allie looks me over with a disapproving frown. "Didn't you eat when you were out there?"

"Not so much. I was too upset," I tell her. "This morning my mother noticed I lost weight, too. She said that was the one good thing that came out of all this." I sigh, as if I am hearing her comment for the first time all over again. "I guess the honeymoon is over."

"After only seventeen years? Hardly," Allie says, wrapping her arms around me and giving me a luxurious kiss that proves my statement wrong and makes people stare.

Finally the luggage arrives but my suitcase does not appear with the others on the conveyor belt. It is then that I remember that in L.A. my bag was checked through on the earlier flight, so we go into the office to claim it.

Forty-five minutes later we pull into our driveway, and a minute after that I am wandering around our house searching for Mishmosh, who is nowhere to be found. "Mishy. Moisheleh. Mishman," I call, to no avail. Finally I spy him under the bed, his green eyes completely dilated as he stares at me with a shocked look on his face as though he is seeing a ghost. "Mishmosh, it's me," I whine, holding out my hand for him to sniff. Cautiously he smells my fingertips, and then recognizing my scent, crawls out from underneath the bed, bangs his head affectionately against my leg, and then slinks by me and trots into the kitchen to get himself something to eat.

"Hey, has he lost weight, too?" I ask Allie as I study my boy.

"He went on a little hunger strike while you were gone," Allie replies, hanging her head with guilt when I chastise her for keeping this a secret from me. "I didn't want to worry you, Lydia. You had enough going on out there. And besides, look at him." She motions toward our cat, who is now noisily chowing down. "He's still pretty hefty, don't you think? He probably could still stand to lose a few pounds. Unlike you." Allie turns toward me and holds out her hand. "Come on. Let's go to sleep."

A few minutes later I am all tucked in, with Allie snuggled up beside me and Mishmosh on the pillow I consider mine and he obviously thinks belongs to him, his furry body perched atop my head like it is an egg he is determined to hatch. Allie wraps herself around me and pulls me against her even more tightly, as Mishmosh kneads my hair with his two front paws and purrs louder than the engine of the plane I just flew in on . I shut my eyes and in no time at all, drift off to sleep feeling as lucky and loved as a homecoming queen.

THE FIRST FIFTY YEARS were a prelude to my life," Vera says, kissing me on the cheek. "You know who said that, Lydia? Yoko Ono." Vera is the first guest to arrive at my fiftieth birthday party, which we are holding in our very own backyard, and she flounces across the lawn in a long flowered sundress and strappy sandals, looking spectacular and glamorous as always. Though this summer has been the rainiest on record, the second Sat.u.r.day in August, which happens to be my actual birthday, arrives made to order: warm but not hot, breezy but not windy, a bit humid, but not unbearably so. Our property has been transformed into the perfect site for a garden party with brightly colored j.a.panese lanterns strung from one end of the yard to the other; round tables covered with white tablecloths scattered about, a gla.s.s vase filled with black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne's lace, and tiger lilies cut from the garden centered on each one; and a bar and buffet of cold seafood and salads set up in the back corner over by Allie's roses, which though a bit past their peak, still look and smell absolutely glorious.

"And who was it that said 'youth is wasted on the young'?" Vera continues musing out loud. "Never mind all that, Lydia. Fifty is the new forty. Maybe even the new thirty-five. Trust me, I'm here in the sagging flesh to tell you not to worry. As they say, the best is yet to come."

"Thanks, Vera. I'll take your word for it." I laugh, throwing my arms around her and pulling her into a real hug. "But as far as I'm concerned, the best is already here. I'm so glad you could come."

"Are you kidding? I wouldn't have missed this for the world. You look beautiful." Vera appreciates my outfit from head to toe, making an especially big fuss over my antique white crocheted dress with the flutter sleeves and scalloped hem, which she knows I spent weeks shopping for. "Is this from Allie?" she asks, lifting my hand to examine the diamond and ruby ring on my finger.

"No, that's the ring my mother gave me. This is from Allie." I crane my neck so Vera can admire the locket I am wearing. It is also adorned with diamonds, which are after all a girl's best friend, and several small rubies.

When Vera finishes admiring my necklace, I drop my chin to my chest and hold the locket out to study it myself. "Isn't it gorgeous?" I ask.

"It's absolutely stunning. I must say, Allie's got darn good taste. In jewelry and in women. So where is she, anyway?"

"Inside, doing some last-minute thing. She'll be out soon. But meanwhile, where is the alleged entourage you said you were bringing?" Vera had been the first to return her R.S.V.P. card, letting me know that of course she'd be there to celebrate my big day, and asking, would I mind if she brought along not one, but two dates? This request from my old friend, who does not believe in romance-at least for herself-and who has never been coupled with anyone in all the time I've known her, struck me as so odd that I simply said it was fine. Perhaps in her dotage Vera had discovered the joys of nonmonogamy?

"My mystery guests are over there somewhere." Vera waves her arm toward the front of the house, where a tall woman in a long yellow dress stands with her back to me, examining a branch of our lilac tree.

"One of your dates is Serena? How perfect." I take Vera's arm and cross the lawn to greet her. "Hi, Serena." Vera's daughter turns and practically knocks me over with her enormous, taut, protruding belly. I can't believe it. She looks like she's six months gone. At least. "Oh my G.o.d, Serena, you're pregnant!" I hug her as best as I can, laughing with delight. "Two guests, huh? One inside the other. Now I get it," I say as Vera and I both bring Serena over to a table, insist that she sit down with her feet propped up on a folding chair, and then go off to get her a drink. "Vera, why didn't you say anything?"

"Oh, Lydia, I've been thinking about it and I wanted to, honestly I did." Vera stops in front of the bar, and asks the caterer standing behind it for a tall gla.s.s of lemonade before turning back to me. "But Serena wanted to keep it a secret for a while, and then...well, to tell you the truth, I was a little nervous about how you'd react. With all the issues you have about mothers and daughters, I wasn't sure that you'd be happy for me."

"Really, Vera?" I take her arm again as we head back toward Serena. "Am I really such a terrible friend?"

"No, Lydia." Vera ducks her head to take a sip of Serena's drink. "It's just that in the past you've had, shall we say mixed feelings when other women you know have become mothers? So I wasn't sure how you would take this. I just thought it might trigger you, as we therapists like to say. That's all. And anyway, now you know."

"Serena's going to be a mother and you're going to be a bubbe ." I stop walking as if I need to stand still to absorb it all. "Wow, Vera. Mazel tov . This is really something. You're right, though. I'm not happy for you." I look my friend squarely in the eye. "I'm overjoyed." I squeeze Vera's hand and hold on to it as we meander back to her daughter. "Does Serena know if it's a boy or a girl?"

"No. She doesn't want to know."

"Is there another parent in the picture? Some type of partner or spouse?"

"No," Vera says again. "Unless you count the turkey baster."

"She's a single parent by choice?" I ask, though the question has already been answered.

Vera smiles and shrugs. "What can I say, Lydia? The apple does not fall far from the tree."

"What prompted all this?"

Vera shrugs. "Serena turned forty and realized it was now or never, so she decided to go for it. And she was very, very lucky and got pregnant right on her first try."

"Like mother, like daughter," I point out. "Only you were ten years younger when you got pregnant with Serena."

"See? Forty is the new thirty." We reach Serena's table and Vera places her lemonade down in front of her. "Here, honey. If it gets too warm in the sun, let me know. I have a hat for you in the car. Or we can go sit in the shade."

"I'm okay for now, Mom. Thanks." Serena smiles, sips, and gazes off into the distance with one hand draped lightly across her belly, looking, well..."serene" is the word that comes to mind.

Ever the gracious hostess, I excuse myself to greet more guests. Some colleagues from the Women's Studies Department arrive next and present me with a "Wise Woman's Care Packet" that contains among other things, a package of adult diapers, a tube of denture cream, a pair of funky yellow polka-dot reading gla.s.ses, a fake hearing aid, a real bottle of prune juice, and the latest issue of AARP magazine.

"What's this?" I pull one more item out of the box: a small, pleated fan, which I unfold and hold up for all to see. It has a delicate pattern of pink chrysanthemums on it and is decorated with a matching silk ta.s.sel.

"That's for your hot flashes," the secretary of my department informs me.

"You mean her power surges," another colleague calls out. "Lydia, have you had any yet?"

"Nope." I fold the fan back up and place it inside the box. "But when I do, I'm sure this will come in handy."

"And here's one more thing." Emmeline steps up and plunks a crimson fedora decorated with a large purple feather on top of my head. "Even though I'm not old enough to join yet, my elders have been gracious enough to allow me to officially induct you into the Red Hat Society."

"Thank you, one and all. Who says feminists don't have a sense of humor?" I ask, looking around at my dear friends. It is then that I notice that Emmeline has stepped back and is now holding hands with someone I have never met before and who is the most androgynous-looking person I have ever seen. He or she is dressed in white linen pants and a beige b.u.t.ton-down shirt, has short-cropped silver hair, and wears not a speck of makeup or jewelry. "Lydia, this is Rob," Emmeline says, her voice soft and dreamy. Rob shakes my hand firmly and then drifts off to fetch Emmeline something to eat from the buffet and something to drink from the bar.

"Rob, huh?" I poke Emmeline in the ribs with my elbow as we both stare at her date's attractive, retreating figure. I know it shouldn't matter and is politically incorrect besides, but still, I can't help but wonder which team Emmeline is currently playing on. Besides, I turned fifty exactly seven hours ago, which means, at least to my mind, that I've earned the right to stop being politically correct. "So, Emmeline," I say ultra casually. "Is that Rob as in Roberta or Rob as in Robert?"

"That's Rob as in robbing the cradle," Emmeline answers without answering before she, too, ambles away.

More and more people arrive and soon the party is in full swing with all of my friends eating, drinking, laughing, and catching up on the latest lesbian gossip. Allie is leading a small group of guests around our property, giving them a walking tour of her garden. Early this morning we set up a badminton net and some exercise mats, and now a horde of children of various ages, shapes, and sizes are running, shouting, and tumbling all over our lawn. And across the gra.s.s, an impromptu game of softball is just getting underway, with Aurora's moms acting as coaches, trying to teach their miniature Ms. and all her friends exactly how to "throw like a girl."

As I stand there taking everything in, Allie shows up at my side, wraps her arm around my waist, and plants a kiss below my left ear. "Why don't you come sit down with me and eat something, birthday girl?" she asks. "Before all the good stuff is gone."

"Okay." I let Allie lead me away but before we get very far, she stops and points toward the street.

"Hey, look," she says, watching a long white limo pull up in front of our house. "Is that the president?"

My gaze follows her fingertip. "G.o.d, I hope not."

"Who, then? Ed McMahon? Have we finally won the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstake?"

"No, silly. You know who that is, Allie." And off I go to greet the guests I have been awaiting to make my party complete.

"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad," I say as they climb out of the car.

"Happy birthday, Lydia." My father, who is dressed in a jazzy pin-striped summer suit, kisses me lightly on the forehead and pa.s.ses me an envelope. "Don't lose that," he warns, which is his way of letting me know that in addition to a birthday card, there's a check tucked inside.

"I won't. Thanks, Dad."

"You're very welcome. Is this your house? Say, this is nice." My parents have never visited Allie and me before, and the surprise in my father's voice tells me he never expected that Allie and I would be the proud owners of such a nice little place. I wonder what he was expecting our home to look like, but luckily before I can ask him, my mother grabs me by the shoulders and hugs me tight.

"Hi, sweetheart," she says as we cling to each other and both start to weep. "No," she says, pushing me gently away and holding up one finger. "No crying today. I'm here. I made it. Without oxygen no less."

"Really, Mom? You don't need it anymore?"

"I need it sometimes. You know, I have good days and not-so-good days. There's some in the car, and I have a small tank right here." She holds up a bright turquoise mesh tote bag that perfectly matches her outfit. "Just in case."

"Hey, Lydia." Jack gets out next, and I am amazed to see that he's all dressed up in a b.u.t.ton-down white shirt, pleated black pants, and a red bow tie. His hair is still long but it is braided neatly and tied down at the end with a piece of rawhide string.

"Hey, Jack, you clean up pretty good," I tell him. "Thanks for dressing up for my party."

Jack shrugs like it's no big deal. "Don't thank me, Lydia," he says, motioning toward the car. "Thank Crystal. This was all her idea. Hey." He pokes his head inside the car. "You girls coming or what?"

"Hold your horses, Jack," a voice says before Crystal emerges. She kicks one long leg and then the other out of the limo like a movie star at the premiere of her latest film, and then takes Jack's hand, rises, and stands still for a moment so we can all admire her. Crystal is wearing a tiny red skirt and halter top, along with matching three-inch heels that sink slightly into the ground as she takes a few steps across the lawn toward me. "Happy birthday, Lydia," she says, bending her long, lithe frame in half and leaning forward to buss the air around my cheek.

"Thanks, Crystal. I like your new do." Crystal has done away with the spiky look and now styles her hair like Cleopatra, complete with black bangs cut straight across her forehead and chin-length hair that curls slightly under.

"Thank you," Crystal says, and then turns her back on us and calls into the car. "Bethany Joy Gutman, I am not telling you again. Get your b.u.t.t out of that car. Right now."

"Okay, okay, okay, " says Bethany, making sure that everyone knows she doesn't want to do as she's told. Especially by her mother. Sighing deeply, like she's just been asked to lift the car off the ground single-handedly instead of merely lug her body out of it, she glumly steps out onto the lawn. "Hi, Lydia."

"Bethany?"

"It's B.J.," she says sharply. I stare at her, trying not to be obvious about it as I take in the amazing transformation of Jack and Crystal's fifteen-year-old daughter. True, I haven't seen her in over a year, but still, it's hard to believe that this is the same girl who, last I heard, was following in her mother's stylishly clad footsteps and spending practically every waking weekend and after-school moment at the mall, the spa, and the tanning salon. Gone are the makeup, the long nails, the hairstyle blow-dried within an inch of its life, the expensive jewelry and the designer clothing. Bethany-or B.J., as I must remember she now wants to be called-has taken grunge to a new level. Her hair looks like it hasn't seen a brush or a comb since the beginning of summer, and her jeans are patched and torn. She wears two different colored flip-flops on her feet and her toes are far from clean.

"I like your T-shirt," I tell her. It is several sizes too large and reads, "Two parents for sale. Cheap!"

"See?" B.J. nee Bethany spits out the word at her mother. "I told you she would like it."

"Why don't you go join those kids over there?" Jack motions toward the side of the house where some of our friends and their offspring are still playing badminton, while others have set up and started a rousing game of croquet.

"You're not serious, are you?" B.J. says in a voice that makes it clear to all within hearing range that she would never, under any circ.u.mstances even dream of stooping so low.

"I have a better idea," Crystal says. "Why don't you go take a long walk...off a short pier?"

"That's so funny I forgot to laugh," B.J. says before thrusting her fists into her pockets and storming off.

"Wow," I say, as we watch her stomp away. It's been a while since I've witnessed such teenage hostility-and even longer since I spewed it myself-and in an odd way it's refreshing to see that some things never change.

"That's our darling daughter," Jack says, shaking his head. "Miss Congeniality."

"Don't worry, Jack." My mother puts her hand on his arm. "All teenagers go through a phase of hating their parents. It's perfectly normal."

"How long does it last?" Jack wants to know.

My mother shrugs. "Some of them get over it sooner, some of them get over it later. It lasts as long as it lasts. But eventually," my mother gives me a meaningful look, "they all come around."

"Why don't we go into the backyard?" I make a move to steer my newly arrived guests toward the party. "I want you to meet everyone." Leading the way proudly as if I am escorting royalty, I bring my family over to a table where we all sit down except for Crystal, who excuses herself and takes off immediately in search of a drink. Allie joins us, hovering at my side, and Vera appears instantly, eager to be introduced.

"This is Vera, my best friend," I tell my mother, hardly believing that after all this time the two of them are meeting face-to-face at last.

My mother contradicts me. "She's not your best friend."

"Yes, she is."

"No, she isn't." My mother shakes her head and points a long red fingernail at Allie. " She's your best friend. Just like your father is my best friend."

"I've wanted to meet you for such a long time," says Vera, who isn't concerned in the least about being demoted to the position of second fiddle. She extends her hand, which my mother takes, and then utters the one thing I pleaded with her not to say. "I've heard so much about you."

"Really?" My mother looks at her with interest. "Anything good?"

Vera laughs. "Everything good. Only good. You have a very special daughter."

"I know," my mother says, making me wonder if this is all a dream.

"Hey, Lydia, here, I brought you something." Jack reaches into his back pocket and shoves an envelope across the table. "Open it."

"Presents go over there." I indicate a table over by Allie's favorite hydrangea plant, which is bursting all over with giant white flowers almost as big as volleyb.a.l.l.s. "I'm not opening them now."

"Please?" Jack asks. "Can't you just open mine?"

"Why?"