Helen said to me at one point that evening, “You know what you should do? You should go and lock yourself in the bathroom for a minute. Just for a minute. Clear your head. It’ll make it easier to remember what’s happening.” But though I set off in that general direction, I was derailed by friends, and spent the evening orchestrating and breaking down conversations. From time to time I would go to the room at the end, the one with the four great bunches of peonies, where my mother was sitting and holding her quiet court. All my mother’s friends were in that room, and some of my oldest friends. Everyone was speaking softly, not about anything of great moment, and there was a quality to the light in that room like nothing I had seen before, and in that light everyone seemed to be young, and my mother’s face had that freshness that it had held in my childhood. When I went into that room I saw that my mother had been right, that the tablecloths and the food and the champagne and even the peonies had almost disappeared in the face of these tides of love. My father looked sad much of the time, but my mother had a look I had not seen in a long time, not the Lake Como reckless look, but something simpler than that, as simple as her black dress with the bright flowers on it. She had gone to this party determined to keep up the front of fun for me and for her friends and for my friends and for Freddy’s friends, but in fact, she was no longer keeping up a front at all. She stayed for almost three hours, longer than she had been out in a crowd in months. When she left, she did it almost silently. “I can’t stay any longer, Harry,” she said to me. “Robert’s going to drive us home. I hope you’re having a good time. I’ve had a lovely time. Just lovely, Harry. It’s the most elegant party I’ve ever been to. The best party.” And she went off to take the elevator down.

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