Mrs. Pavich appeared in the archway again. “Mrs. Kirschbaum,” she said, drawing everyone’s attention. “The food is getting cold.”

But then the doorbell clanged and more guests arrived, and the merry band rushed to see who it was. Cheers and greetings rang from the foyer.

Henry and Effie were reunited. “Do you want to go?” he asked.

She couldn’t seem to settle her eyes on any one place. “I mean—we’re here. We might as well stay for supper.” She caught herself and looked at him. “Do you want to go?”

“No,” he said. “I’m fine staying. If you are.”

“I’m fine.”

“Then we’ll stay. A little while.”

“If that’s what you want to do.”

Their number had doubled. The newcomers were in two groups, as far as Henry could tell: one of them very fine, as if they had just arrived from Hollywood—two couples in light blazers and sparkling dresses that revealed a great deal of skin—and the other appeared to be beatniks—a bearded man in glasses, and three women who wore their hair long and had thick eyeliner. One of the women wore nothing more than a slip and heels. If she’d been out on the street in Signal Creek, she’d have been arrested.

Eventually they all gathered, in twos and threes, around a large table outside, in a covered section of the patio bordered by hedges and vines. A giant platter of what looked to be gumbo lay in the center. Around it, bowls of soup and sauce, plates of greens and olives and bread, and three carafes of red wine. It all looked vaguely foreign. There weren’t nearly enough places at the table, and people were dragging chairs in from the poolside or were content to stand, but no one would take Henry’s seat when he offered it—in fact, they laughed at him: “No, really! I’m fine! Stay, stay!”—and he had the feeling that he was acting too formally, too politely for this crowd. He was the only person wearing a tie; he took it off and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Clara sat across from him and commanded everyone to dig in, though she ignored her own plate. Beside her sat the boxer, who had still not put his shirt on. Henry’s mother would have had something to say about that. Likely Effie would have too, if she weren’t dazzled, as he was, by the drinks and the chatter and the motley party gathering around them. Everyone was talking at once. Here and there, peals of laughter. A woman reached over him, pressing her breast against his shoulder, and her skin grazed his cheek and the tip of his nose; he caught the scent of strawberries.

The sun was setting. A soft, golden light lingered in the treetops. On the table, votive candles flickered among the settings. Everyone looked beautiful.