A month after my divorce, my ex-mother-in-law called at 5 a.m., demanding I cook for her husband’s 70th birthday. After years as a servant, I replied, “Who is this?” Hours later, they learned the truth.

Before I could answer, I heard Brian in the background.

“Give me the phone.”

A moment later, his voice replaced hers.

“Samantha, stop embarrassing yourself.”

I said nothing.

“You won’t last a month without me. Go help Mom prepare the party and stop pretending you suddenly have some important career.”

I looked toward the chair beside my bed.

An ivory dress hung neatly over the back.

Beside it sat a formal presentation folder bearing the crest of the Grand Plaza Hotel in Baltimore.

“I actually have a board meeting this morning.”

Brian laughed.

“Where? Some roadside diner?”

“No.”

I smiled.

“At the luxury hotel group you’ve been trying to work with for years.”

His laughter grew louder.

“Sure. And I own the Metropolitan Opera.”

I hung up.

At 5:20, a taxi pulled outside my apartment.

It wasn’t taking me to Beatrice’s house.

It was taking me to the Grand Plaza Hotel.