Reynard’s mouth leaves him for a minute. Stanford can hear little else besides his own breathing and the unsteady crackle of feet moving on the ground. “Because otherwise nobody invites me to the wedding,” he says, opening his shirt. In the dark it looks like something falling, the white fabric fumbling away from his body, and they move in and go at it. It is nighttime. Quick, quick, Stanford thinks, and they walk almost blindly, almost separately, to the clubhouse when they’re done. Stanford tucks in everything a few yards before the porch, but who knows the reasoning behind Lil’s disapproving glare.

“Where did you go?” Martin asks inside. “People got thirsty suddenly. We could really use that last barrel.”

“There’s beer.”

“Look around, Stanford. These are tech guys, some of them. We must offer more splendid things besides splendid beer. These guests are pairing up and marrying off and when they do, hiring the guys from the hip bar will move some of their money into our exhausted wallets.”

“OK, OK.” Stanford lifts and tilts a barrel like he’s cheating at pinball, almost empty. “I’ll do a pitcher of margaritas with a little of the rosewater,” he says.

“There we go,” Martin agrees, “but where were you?”

They have been, not friends, comrades for a while. Nina is still leaning at the bar and she twirls her mint at both of them. “You really want to know?”

Martin lifts a shaker and maracas it, raises his eyebrows.

“I had sex with the vicar.”

Martin looks at the woody ceiling and drains the drink, golden yellow, into Nina’s glass. “You dog.”

Nina laughs and then stops, her eyes panicked over the cocktail. “Reynard?”

“Yeah, the ceremony guy.”

“Reynard Mahatma is my husband.”

Martin blinks. “What’s his last name?”

Stanford sees some mistake possible here, what with the vicar not being a vicar, or at least a liar. “He doesn’t have a ring on. Are we talking about the same guy?”

“We’re engaged!” Nina spits. “You bastard!”