Over the fireplace hung a twenty-by-twenty painting of Amy’s two children-—toddlers on the beach bending over a shell or a wave; one could not see what the children were looking at, as they were the focus of the picture.

The furniture was spread into what his wife called “conversation triangles” and he wondered if the living room was usually set up this way, or had been rearranged for the party. Small silver trays lay around the room with spaces where food had been removed. Napkins with wet rings or crumpled with leftover cocktail sauce were scattered haphazardly on tables.

The windows reflected the candles and minimal lamp-light like an abstract painting of stars, warped and misplaced on a grid of windowpanes. He scanned the crowd.

Someone touched his elbow. He turned.

“Daddy.” Lisbeth threw her arms around his neck.

“Honey, I’m sorry I’m late. Work and all.”

“I’m so glad you’re here. Mom looks kinda lost, wandering around the party without anyone to talk to.”

Nick looked at his beautiful daughter, whose face was chiseled with the finest features of her aristocratic Sullivan ancestors. Her cheeks were red, not from heat or cold, but from what he affectionately called her “cry spots.” He knew the signs in his daughter, had witnessed them since she was two years old—a crying jag of immeasurable length had ensued and he, thank God, had missed it. He loved her, but the endless tears drove him insane.

“What happened, darlin’?”

“Nothing . . . why?”

“Don’t give me that baloney. I know all the signs. . . . What happened? Did your mother say something, do something?”

“Oh, Daddy, it was all just a huge mix-up. I’m fine, really. I thought Mom was driving me to the party. She thought Jack was. Jack thought she was. I couldn’t find either of them, or you . . . and I just sorta freaked out a little. It’s okay now. Really.”

“Well, you look beautiful. Is your mom around anywhere?”

“Wandering . . . Does she know you don’t have a tie on?”

Nick looked down. “Didn’t know it was so formal.”

“Jeez, Daddy, Mom has on a formal full-length thing.”

A squat woman in a white uniform walked by with a tray full of champagne glasses, which she held above her shoulder. The tray reached to Nick’s chest. He grabbed two flutes; his daughter held out her hand.

“Ah, you’re not old enough yet,” he said.

“Dad, give me a break. I will be in one week.”

He glanced around the room and handed the drink to his daughter. “Don’t tell your mom.”

Lisbeth pouted out her lower lip. “Not that she’d notice. She’s grabbed one too many of these herself.”

“Great. Just great,” Nick mumbled as he looked toward the swinging door that obviously led to the kitchen, the door fluttering like a defective heart valve. He guzzled his champagne.