“Well, she’d need to be to be married to Philip,” Regan added. “He never wore matching socks or tucked his shirt in properly. Oh my God, look who’s coming!”

They all turned to see Claire James push through the line full of people waiting for tables. Obviously she had spotted them. Ten years had not changed her preference for L.L. Bean outfits with matching headbands.

“Hi, y’all,” she drawled. “How come nobody came to git me this morning? I just never sleep this doggone late.”

It was obvious, Regan thought, that Claire was still playing the Southern belle.

Claire looked around. “You guys all just look super. And Regan, I just love your new little hairdo. You look so much better with it short.”

Under the table Kit stepped on Regan’s foot with significant pressure. Regan refilled her cup of tea as Claire, obviously assuming they’d all be fascinated to hear, filled them in on the fact that she had been married, divorced, and was now engaged again. “And I’ve travelled and travelled,” she concluded airily. “Regan, I always pack one of your mother’s books to read on the plane. Where does she get those crazy ideas? That last one had me so skay-ud. Did you know I looked up Athena’s family in Greece last year?”

“Is Athena back in the family fold?” Regan asked.

“No, she is not. They never heard another word from her. Wouldn’t you think she’d at least send a postcard?”

“She never showed up!” Regan exclaimed. “And they never tried to trace her?”

“After a while they tried. But she just vanished into thin air.”

“I wish I had known,” Regan said. “Nobody just vanishes into thin air.”

Claire dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. “Did any of you read the reunion schedule?” she continued. “Before the dinner tonight, Philip’s aunt, that sweet dear old lady, has invited us for cocktails at her house. Remember she gave us a farewell party ten years ago?”

Regan remembered. She remembered the drafty old house, the muddy grounds which even then Philip was miraculously turning into an English garden, the Cheez Whiz on a stale biscuit, and, best or worst of all, Philip’s aunt, Lady Veronica Whitcomb Exner.

At age forty, half her lifetime ago, to the total astonishment of her relatives and friends, Veronica had married Sir Gilbert Exner, then eighty-six years old. He quite considerately died of a heart attack two weeks later, leaving much speculation as to whether Veronica’s untried libido had been set free in the drafty master bedroom of Llewellyn Hall.

Regan was rather fond of Lady Exner. But then again she had only seen her in small doses. Ten years ago Veronica Exner’s sole social activity had seemed to consist of having her nephew the Professor invite his students over for sherry. Regan realized Claire was still talking.