Glenna said, “Mother, this is Gordon.”

Considering Mrs. Rising’s appearance, I had expected her voice to be a scratchy whine, but it was polished to a cultured gloss. “Yes, yes, hello. You’re the young man who wrote about Glenna and her abortion business.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” I said.

Glenna said, “I’m not in the abortion business.”

Mrs. Rising replied, “You would think young women today with their opportunities could choose nobler causes than terminating pregnancies. I’ve always thought that issue was the bailiwick of men who don’t want to accept the consequences of their actions.”

Glenna said, “But the women they impregnate are saddled with the children.”

Peering keenly at Glenna, Mrs. Rising said, “Saddled, yes. Saddled with children. Very good, dear.”

I glanced at Glenna and thought she was going to start crying or cursing, and just then Dr. Rising emerged from the kitchen carrying an acrylic tray of hors d’oeuvres. Given his wife’s taste, I was expecting a fiftyish hipster in a paisley Nehru jacket, but he was attired for a day of billiards at a swanky men’s club: a maroon, shawl-collar cardigan, powder-blue shirt, gray flannels, and tasseled cordovan loafers.

He shook my hand, and I wanted to laugh. He was a dead ringer for Babe Ruth, the same severe part in his hair, the flat nose, and overhanging brow, the big shoulders and belly.

“The fire needs fixing, Kay,” Dr. Rising said.

“Sit, Herman,” said Mrs. Rising as she and her daughter sank into a leather settee. “Glenna’s friend will see to the fire.”

Dr. Rising obeyed, and I arranged more logs in the fire pit, along with kindling and sections of last week’s Sunday Times, one of which was sports and featured an interview with Jets’ coach, Weeb Ewbank. As flames rose from the newsprint and kindling, I checked my watch. Kickoff was in midair.

Hors d’oeuvres were a selection of cheeses, French bread, and carbonated Pellegrino water. I could have used a real drink. Nobody offered me one. The conversation was now devoted to Mrs. Rising’s fear of getting hijacked to Cuba on her flight from Palm Beach to Newark. Dr. Rising had raised the topic, and Mrs. Rising was clearly uncomfortable with it, which lit up Glenna’s face like a thousand-watt bulb.

“It’s horrifying,” said Mrs. Rising. “The morning before we left, a National Airlines jet from Key West to Miami winds up in Havana.”

Trying to impress Mrs. Rising, I feigned as much interest as I could and asked her, “Do they have many hijackings from Palm Beach?”

Glenna snickered like the smartest girl in class when the dumb kid asks if two plus two equals zero. She said, “A crime wave at the Palm Beach airport is when the baggage handlers steal golf clubs.”

Mrs. Rising retorted, “Don’t be absurd. Palm Beach has crime like everywhere else.”

Chewing a wedge of Swiss, Dr. Rising said, “Kay, I did lose my putter to the baggage handlers.”

“Herman,” she said, “don’t talk with your mouth full.” Dr. Rising swallowed his cheese, then asked Glenna what rotation she was doing. Glenna answered, “Surgery,” and Dr. Rising commented, “That’s tough,” which was when Mrs. Rising, perhaps miffed that the discussion no longer centered on her, grimaced and said, “Glenna, help me with dinner.”