Eliza glanced up, started at the sight of Jack, Lisbeth and Amy on the stairs.

“No, no. . . just looking for a bathroom.”

“Down the hall to the left.” Amy swept her hand down the banister as she came to the foyer.

Eliza looked up at Lisbeth. “You all right, sweetie?”

“Sure.” She reached for Jack’s hand. “We came down to . . . what was it, mingle?”

Amy turned to say something to Lisbeth, something she was sure she would later regret, but Mr. Winters from next door stood waving goodbye at the front door.

“Excuse me, please.” Amy walked to her neighbor and thanked him for coming, retrieved his coat, then opened the front door. She walked out with him and stood under the porch light away from Lisbeth and her endless tears, away from the party and guests. She waved goodbye; a few of the candles, in red tin buckets with Christmas tree cutouts, had blown out. She closed the door behind her and reached under the porch swing for the matches. She lit a match and began to ignite the three candles as the frigid air cut through any white wine, champagne haze that might have had a chance to settle over her mind.

She glanced up at the sound of a passing car. A white Dodge pickup truck turned the corner. No. Stop. She shook her head and turned back to the house. The din of the party sounded like a muffled recording. The cold sliced through her bare arms like small needles. A flare of fire hit her finger, the same damn finger with the Band-Aid on it from the knife cut.

“Damn, damn, damn.” She dropped the match, stomped on it. “Damn you, Nick Lowry. Damn you and your telegrams and forest preservation and damn your neurotic, whiny daughter.” She stepped on the match one more unneeded time and looked around. Had anyone heard her? Had she said all that out loud?

She began to sit down on the swing before she remembered her silk dress and the distinct possibility of bird doo or some other treat of nature that might be on the swing. She kicked at the screen door and opened it.

Phil stood on the other side of the door. “Amy, come in the house. What’re you doing?”

“Some of the candles blew out.”

He ran his hand up and down her arm. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve done it.”

“Phil, for God’s sake, I can light a few candles.”

“Yes, Amy, you can. Now go drink a glass of champagne with Carol Anne and have a good time.”

“I am having a good time. Did you talk to the Stevensons?”

“Yeah, seems your friends got ahold of Bill about the island. Could you please tell them there are better places than our Christmas party to accost Mr. Stevenson?”