“Um, I don’t take people to sex clubs under any circumstances,” Ruby said. “I wouldn’t know where to find one.”

“Private homes, mostly.” Sally York, a stout, pink-haired woman hooked up to an oxygen tank, gave a decisive nod. “The movies always make it look like they operate out of seedy bars, but they’re really more like a dinner party than a night out on the town.”

The other women agreed as though this made perfect sense—which, Ruby was willing to acknowledge, it probably did. She might not know much about the world of swinging and group sex, but these women had come of age in the 1960s. Their collective knowledge would have made the Marquis de Sade blush.

It would also make Spencer blush. Ruby found herself chuckling inwardly as she imagined telling him about this later. Sharing funny stories from work wasn’t something she often did, since few people realized that underneath the laughter lay a deep and unreserved love for the residents, but Spencer would get it.

At least, he would get it if she could work up the blasted nerve to tell him the truth.

“What I don’t understand is how she could walk after they were done,” another woman said. She had a cup of tea at her elbow and a half-eaten slice of banana bread in front of her. “They had sex for forty-four pages. I counted.”

“If you factor in a minute per page, it sounds possible.”

“I think it’s closer to five minutes per page. Look at the beginning of the sixth chapter. It’d take twice that long just to get in position. That poor girl must have a third leg to make it work.” The speaker, Lorraine Dewan, was the owner of the Maltese that Harry had once thrown in the pool. “We’ll start reading aloud, dear, and you can act out the parts. You look flexible. Who has a timer?”

Ruby held up her hands and started backing away toward the kitchen as the women fished out their cell phones and fought over who would be the timekeeper. She was happy to participate in their conversations and eat their baked goods, but she drew the line at re-creating sex acts in a living room covered with hand-crocheted doilies. She’d once attended a wake here, for crying out loud.

“Don’t be such a prude, Ruby. We promise not to record it.”

“It’ll be good for you, dear. You might learn a thing or two.”

“Now look what you’ve done. You scared her off.” In a louder voice, Mrs. Orson added, “Eat some of the bread, Ruby, and come back in thirty minutes. There’s banana or pumpkin. We’ll see how you feel about it then.”