They joined the dancing, the crowd pressing them close, the air warm and humid. Henry’s normal reserve disappeared whenever there was music. He maneuvered himself between Effie and Max and let himself go. He danced and danced. The woman in the slip was hopping in place, her breasts bouncing wildly. A few feet away, one of the cadets was nuzzling Clara’s hair. A spray of something, Champagne or beer, fell on the crowd near Henry and they answered it with a cheer. What a party! The music let loose and went wild. He elbowed a woman in the back of the head, but before he could apologize she laughed and threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “Hey!” Effie cried, pulling him away. “Hands off, you hussy!”—and Henry gripped her hips to still her, but she was only playing: she got up on her tiptoes and kissed him, her tongue grazing his lips.

“I can’t take you anywhere!” he cried.

“But you have to take me everywhere—I’m your wife!”

One song ended with a cry of saxophones, the crowd cheered, and right away another tempo began, piano and drums, low but tense with suppressed energy. Henry didn’t know this record—Louis Prima?—but he was loving it.

Now Clara wedged herself into their midst. “My little darlings!” She hooked her arms over Henry’s and Effie’s shoulders, smelling of Chanel No. 5 and radiating heat. “I thought I’d never escape.”

“This is some party,” Effie said. “I’ll give you that, Clara Strauss.”

“Did you see that boy trying to get his hooks into me?” Clara said. Henry said he had, but she was talking to Max, who was suddenly frowning. He had his chin up, trying to see over the crowd. He wasn’t very tall. “Max,” Clara tried again, “you may need to defend my honor before the night’s over.”

Max didn’t hear her, and Clara leaned in and repeated herself, and he laughed and said, “Anytime, my lady”—but then he excused himself and made his way through the crowd. Clara watched him go, and for a moment Henry thought he really was going to defend her honor: he approached one of the cadets, who was kissing a girl’s neck, but instead of pushing the boy away he grabbed the girl’s wrist and dragged her to the edge of the crowd, toward a corner of the den that led off into a hallway. She was one of the merry band who had burst into the den from the beach earlier in the evening. She wore a long, drab cardigan over a white bathing suit and shorts, and her hair was tied up carelessly, strands falling all about her face. She stumbled after Max, looking not so much angry as bored.

“You know what?” Effie said, speaking more loudly than necessary. “I’m glad I ran into you, Clara Strauss, or whatever your name is. I was not glad at first, if I am to be one-hundred-percent honest, but I am glad now.”