The lock clicked, and the basement door swung open to a cold, silent kitchen. Beverly flipped on the lights, and Gloria headed straight for the big roasting pans. Russ arrived with the flatbed, and within minutes folding tables were rattling down the stairs. We moved as if we had never stopped, browning beef, boiling noodles, warming the ham, and watching the coffee urn that always needed extra time.

At 11:40, footsteps hurried down the stairs. Chelsea stood in the doorway, white-faced, her phone shaking in her hand. “I never asked you to come,” she whispered. Then she looked past us at the counters and froze. Every pot was full, every table set, and on the back shelf sat a thick binder with her name written across the cover.