We spread our blankets and set up our folding chairs on the grass in front of the gazebo. The band was called Swing Time Revue, one of the last touring holdouts from the big swing music revival that went on ten or fifteen years ago. Despite the August heat, they had the whole look going on: the high-waisted pegged pants, long coats with wide lapels and padded shoulders, natty hats. The lead singer was sweating buckets as he exhorted us to jump, jive, and wail, but the band was good and the music was infectious.

“Think you still remember how to do it, Daisy?” Mom asked me with a mischievous look.

Cody chuckled. “You took swing dancing classes?”

“No.” I pointed at my mother. “She did. She made me practice with her. I was, like, ten years old.”

“Twelve,” she corrected me, then gave a mock sigh. “But I suppose you’re far too grown-up for it now, huh?”

Lurine lowered the oversize sunglasses that rendered her semi-incognito and gave me a stern look. “Oh, for God’s sake, cupcake, dance with your mother.”

I eyed Mom. “Do you want to lead or shall I?”

She smiled. “I will.”

So I danced with my mother on the trampled grass, both of us laughing as we held each other’s hands and tried in vain to remember how the basic steps went, eventually giving up and just making it up as we went along while the trumpets wailed and the lead singer mopped his sweating brow.

We weren’t alone. Adults danced, some badly, some of them rather well. Little kids danced, entranced by the rhythm. Older kids hung around pretending like they didn’t wish they dared to shed their inhibitions and join in the fun.

Cody and Jen danced together, the young Fairfax boy-cubs tumbling around their feet in some complicated feral game of their own invention while their parents watched with a mixture of benevolence and concern. At least Cody’s nephews weren’t yipping and growling aloud this time.

On the band’s first break, Sinclair turned up, picking his way through the crowd when I spotted him and waved. After introducing him to everyone, I scooted over on the blanket to make room.

Sinclair plunked himself down next to me. “Am I imagining things, or is that Lurine Hollister you just introduced me to?” he whispered.

I sighed. “Yeah.”

“Cool.” He nodded. “I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“I can’t say for sure, but let’s just say she’s sporting an almighty powerful aura for a B-list actress who starred in some awfully crappy movies, even if she was the best thing about them,” Sinclair said with amusement, his shoulder brushing mine. His voice changed, taking on a different shade of emotion. “Your mom’s pretty. Got a pretty aura, too. Tranquil. Not what I expected, I guess.”

“Exactly what did you expect?” I asked him.