I looked up at my ex-husband. Although I had not cared what clothes he'd worn when we were married - he looked like a male model in every thing - I had a compulsive interest in assessing his current wardrobe. Perhaps it was the new ostentation. He wants to look younger: Or the leather, wool, occasional silk: he's making lots of money. If I thought it was polyester, I savored an inner victory: the practice is failing. I now glanced from the hand-tooled cowboy boots past the charcoal-colored wool pants to the silk cowboy shirt and Navajo bolo tie. The bolo was held with a silver ring sporting a hunk of turquoise that matched his eyes. John Richard was tall and blond, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He had more the build of a prizefighter than a doctor. Which, I reflected, was probably appropriate.

He straightened his tie. He said, "Outfit okay?"

I took a deep breath. I was too angry to admit he looked fabulous. I closed my eyes and feigned boredom.

"Remember," I said, "I'm from New Jersey. There, people wear cowboy clothes up to fourth grade. But suit yourself."

He was walking away. He held his hand up in mock salute. "I'll do that."

I looked at the food spread out on the table, then scanned the room for Patty Sue. She was talking to Pomeroy the beekeeper. At least someone was having a decent conversation with a man. Fritz Korman was sidling up to Patty Sue himself. Didn't he see her enough with the twice-weekly visits? I also noticed Vonette watching Fritz.

Not a student of social interaction, I put myself to work. Besides, I didn't want to seem to be looking for John Richard.

"Come and eat," I invited a new gaggle of people eyeing the salmon. "C'mon, Trix, " I said because she was once more near me.

Trixie's right arm - ripped, shredded; cut, as they say in the body business - reached for a plate. I lifted salmon flesh from the carcass.

"Asparagus?" I asked her.

"Of course," she said. "But no bread."

"Were you a friend of Laura's?" I asked.

"I knew her," she said vaguely, as I topped her coral-colored mound of fish with a dollop of mayonnaise. Trixie looked at me, dark brown eyes in a face framed with streaked blond hair. She said, "Not too much mayo." She thought for a minute. "Laura used to come to class. Sometimes we talked afterward. She was funny, a little wacko, I thought, but not... She never came to the club's parties. She was like you, didn't really go out with men."

I mm-hmmed and averted my eyes to end the conversation. This was not the assessment of my current social life that I wanted John Richard to overhear.

The aunt came up and asked how everything was going, then complimented us on the food, which she had yet to taste. She was a short woman with pale makeup and too-black hair cut severely short around her face.