I was standing in the dining room, gazing at the mahogany table strewn with used linen, considering my options—should I go back upstairs or brave the awkward chitchat that surely awaited me in the kitchen?—when Aunt Jane fell upon me. “Collette!” she called. “You have another poor soul who wants some leftovers.” She, Bo’s aunt, the one who deigned to stay at the wrong hotel on Market Street, was still in her party dress. She’d startled me, and she must have noticed, for she put a hand on my shoulder. It steadied me, and I saw that it steadied her, too. She wore glasses like her sister, though not as trendy, and behind them were wide, untroubled eyes. The eyes of a woman happy to be a little tipsy. “Bo was just in here, looking for a leg of something.” Aunt Jane laughed, and almost singing, declared, “It’s that time of night!” She bounced back toward the kitchen. I followed.

Judge Reed straightened when she saw me in the doorway. “Join us,” she said from her rush-seated counter stool. In her voice, I searched for any hints that I shouldn’t. I was interrupting a woman in her own kitchen, late at night. A conversation between sisters. I begrudged the fact that I was so hungry. But she nodded toward the island—and its cheeseboard, crackers, open tub of hummus.

“Join us?” Aunt Jane said. “I’ve been telling you for the last hour I’m going back to the hotel.”

“It’s early yet,” Judge Reed said.

“It’s one o’clock in the damn morning.” Aunt Jane laughed again.

“Oh, you’ve got other plans?” She slid a basket of sliced baguette down the counter to Aunt Jane.

“You have a sister, don’t you, Daisy?” Aunt Jane asked, selecting a slice of bread.

“Yes,” I said, enjoying their banter and analyzing how best to scoop some hummus without making a mess. I pulled out the stool next to the Judge, careful not to drag the legs across the floor. “She’s here with me. Did you get introduced to Wallis?”

“Y’all are sisters? Well, now, that makes sense. I saw her pushing a drink into your hand earlier tonight. I thought that looked familiar.” Aunt Jane turned to her own sister. “You might as well hand me that bottle, then. But this is my last one, mark my words.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Judge Reed said, passing the Pimm’s. “Pour Daisy some, too. Her hands are too empty for late-night chatting.”

From a nearby cabinet the color of a latte, Aunt Jane found a short tumbler, a delicate one, glass, decorated with intricate bubbles and threads.

“You like Pimm’s?” Judge Reed asked as Aunt Jane filled my cup with ice from the massive freezer.

“I’ve only had it once,” I said, “when I was in New Orleans some time ago, on a trip with my boss.”