The Longest Night. Kathleen O'Reilly

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      Cassandra scoped out the hotties who were tending bar and laughed at the familiar faces. Thomas, Seth and Charles. Beth had opened a tearoom, highbrow and staid, except for the waiters in tuxes that made it smolder, Chicago-style.

      “They’re just babes in the wood,” answered Cassandra, though she had actually considered it at one time.

      “Beth told me who Noah was. Quite conveniently we noticed that he’s alone.”

      Cassandra tapped a fingernail on the table as her sole concession to Noah Barclay. “Why don’t you go find your husband? I’ll be fine.”

      “You don’t want company?”

      “It’s nice to sit and think, remember all the good times we had.”

      “It’s a wedding, not a funeral,” said Mickey, using her glasses for the full egghead effect.

      Cassandra leaned back, watching the matrimonial circus in front of her. “It all depends on your perspective.”