“But what are you doing here this time of year?” she asked, taking two tall glasses down from a shelf behind the minibar.

Effie lifted her head and reported, as if with regret, that they were on their honeymoon.

“No!” Clara slammed the glasses down, and for a moment Henry thought she was actually angry at them. “You mean you’re newlyweds? You mean you’re on your honeymoon right now?” She turned away from them and shouted, “Mrs. Pavich!”

From an archway that led off the den a voice came back to them, thickly accented and dripping with ennui: “Yes, Mrs. Kirschbaum.”

“I have changed my mind. We will have the carrot cake.” She turned back to Henry and Effie. “But of course you’re newlyweds. You’re glowing—I can see it now.”

Henry smiled at Effie, but Effie kept her eyes fixed on Clara, a taut, neutral expression on her face.

“Well, that settles it: you’re staying for dinner. I can’t imagine where you were thinking of going; it can’t be better than what old Mrs. Pavich is cooking up. Everyone’s down at the beach right now—well, not Richard, of course—but we’re having a party, and you two are going to stay and celebrate with us.”

In his confusion Henry said, “You’re throwing us a party?” and Effie looked at him like he was an idiot indeed.

“Oh, I love him!” Clara said.

“I wish we could stay,” Effie said. “But we’re not here much longer, and we really wanted to see a little more of the town, you know—have dinner, see a movie…”

But Clara was rummaging behind the bar. “I hope Mrs. Pavich hasn’t forgotten the ice. We will need a lot of ice.” She stood up straight. “You two just sit there and look perfect and I’ll be back in thirty seconds. I can’t wait to catch up.” She dashed off toward the archway, shouting “Mrs. Pavich!” again.

“Wow,” Henry said. “She’s something else, isn’t she?”

“We’re leaving,” Effie said.

She stood up from the sofa, but Henry took hold of her wrist. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“The one person we run into, and it’s got to be Clara Strauss. Or whatever her name is. She must have snagged a husband.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

She brushed his hand away and looked toward the archway, from which they could hear Clara gleefully lecturing Mrs. Pavich: “This one is for the hollandaise, dear, and this one is for the pepper sauce. Do you see the difference in the spouts?”

“She’s a snot-nosed bully and a harlot,” Effie said. “She’s not a good person.”

Henry laughed. “Come on. Sit down. We’re not just going to walk out on her, I don’t care who she is.”