The book club was my idea.
After my husband, David, and I were priced out of our Park Slope apartment, I invited my best friend Annie to our new place in Flatbush to talk tomes and sip wine.
I met Annie at our college English department's copy machine 20 years earlier, immediately charmed by her orange polka dot dress, turquoise booties and bubbly personality. When I was broke, she generously paid me for guest speaker appearances in her classes, and because my new digs were five blocks from hers, she helped me unpack and decorate.
I asked another friend, too, and the three of us became a monthly trio. When the friend moved out of state, Annie asked — during our weekly laundromat grading session — if she could invite her neighbor.
"Absolutely," I replied. "What's their email?"
"I see him every day," Annie cooed. "I'll tell him."
Two months later, Annie invited someone else. Worried the club was getting crowded, but trusting Annie, I said nothing. However, when Annie turned up at a subsequent meeting with her cat-sitter, I felt like a wallflower at my own party while the four of them gabbed and gossiped as they ate my chips and dips.
"Haven't seen each other in a while?" I joked, trying to join in.
"We had lunch yesterday!" they laughed.
Needing an ally, I told Annie after the meeting that I wanted to invite someone we both knew. I mentioned a few people, all of whom she vetoed. A week later, she phoned to announce she'd organized our next session.
"Who made you boss?" I snapped.
"You're too slow," she said, voice quavering.
"All of a sudden, you're my mother," I said, "grabbing dishes out of my hands because I'm not drying fast enough?"