Effie drew the third one. She was wearing one of the modest dresses he knew from church, and he helped her with the zipper in the back. She shimmied it up over her waist and with effort pulled it up over her head and off. “Huzzah,” Clara said. She wore a pointy tan bra and matching panties, open lace at the hips. She hugged her knees to her chest and said, “Don’t look at me, I’m a whale”—“Drink,” Max said—and Clara said, “You’re an angel, my little belle”—“You drink too.”

For the rest of the game, Clara was the only one dressed. Henry drew the other joker, and said they all had to speak like Southerners now. “Not fair,” Max said, and Henry ordered him to drink. But there were only a few cards left. Max picked up the last one—the final ace—and without having to be told, Clara reached back to unzip her dress, pushed the shoulder straps off, and worked it down past her hips, down her legs, and kicked it away. She wore mismatched underwear—white bra, blue panties. “Free at last,” she said, and Henry admired her without restraint, the soft, broad expanse of her. She smiled at him. “Should we play again?”

“No!” Effie cried. “I won’t be able to stand up anymore.”

Nevertheless, she asked Henry to refresh her drink, and he went back to the bar with both of their glasses. Max put on another log. He’d been right, there was a draft in the room—Henry could feel it by the bar—but instead of putting their clothes back on they huddled closer to the fire, which Max had stoked up high. Clara took a few pillows down from the couch. The music had stopped long ago, and Effie got up to put another record on. She read the back of a record, holding her left leg out en tendu, and put on Vic Damone, “On the Street Where You Live.” She sang la-di-da to the melody, swept back to them, and by the couch spread her arms out and spun around a few times, until she stumbled, laughed at herself, and plopped down on the floor beside Henry. She lay back and stretched her legs over his lap, and he ran his hands over her bare skin. A few strands of hair peeked out from the edge of her underwear, and he tucked them back in. He wasn’t bothered. It excited him that they might see. She smiled at him. “I’m sure I’ll be embarrassed about this in the morning,” she said.

“No, my belle,” Clara said. She lay close to them on her side, her back to the fire, head propped on her hand. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We’re all in it together.” She reached out and ran the back of her fingers over Effie’s arm. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”