Occasionally Clara made the mistake of trying to tell a story of her own in Max’s way, about her old girlfriends in Philadelphia, or her failure to impress Richard’s business partners, and the laughter would be forced, but then Max always came to her rescue, making a joke of it that was his own triumph but that also saved Clara’s story. She was her best with a bon mot, her quick asides to Henry and Effie, or else when she was passionately, self-consciously earnest—when she described a book she’d read or a movie she admired or music she’d heard for the first time. “My God, Iris Murdoch makes me mad with joy. She’s just so—potent!” She was a writer herself, she admitted. She’d published a few stories in little magazines (“You’re joking,” Effie said flatly), and she was at work on a play. She wouldn’t discuss what it was about, not even a hint, and she wasn’t being coy: when Effie pressed, Clara cried “No!” and laughed almost hysterically, shooting a glance at Max, and got up to fix herself another drink.

On the few occasions when Effie told a story, the room quieted—the fire popped, the trees outside the windows sighed—and Max and Clara listened carefully. She told the story about their fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Hughes, and the bottle of Elmer’s glue, and when she got to the part where the cap popped open, Max clapped his hands together, fell back in his chair, and laughed in an exaggerated way that bothered Henry—as if Max felt the need to bestow his approval. The story wasn’t that funny. But most of the time Effie was just an audience, as Henry was, an audience Max clearly relished, which Effie satisfied by sitting on the edge of the couch cushion, smiling, her cheeks flushed bright red.

Henry himself had little to say. The few times he was asked a question, or when Effie asked him to fill in some little detail of a story, he replied with a curt bashfulness that pleased his own ears. Without quite realizing it, he was conjuring his uncle Red, the old Southern Railway engineer who in retirement sat permanently perched on his armchair with a slightly ironic grin on his face while the ladies chattered. He seemed to amuse Clara and Max. He could say something as simple as “Yep,” or, “Hell, I don’t know, Effie,” and both of them would laugh. But it pleased him; it wasn’t like they were making fun of him. He would be a man of few words.

Once they’d finished the platter and Henry had lost count of the number of whiskey sodas he’d had, Clara, in a lull, said, “It feels so late, doesn’t it? Is it late?”

Effie slapped her thighs. “We should go.”

“No,” Clara said. “That’s not what I meant. Stay as long as you like. Stay all night if you want to.”

“Yes, please,” Max put in.

“Our house is just across the way,” Effie said.