I take my wife gently by the elbow. “Do you have Stockholm syndrome? We’re free to go. Let’s go.”

She’s looking past me, nervously assessing someone or something over my shoulder. “Don’t you think we ought to take one with Nick?”

“With Nick? No. Let’s go.”

“Look at him, Bobby.” I follow her gaze to the brooding young man leaning against the reception table, waiting for Jonah. My eyes linger on a giant poster of my face—pupils large as thumbprints, smile as big as a dinner plate—bearing the caption Dr. Robert Hart: Sag Harbor Citizen of the Year.

“Yeah,” I concede, “he’s photogenic. Doesn’t mean he should be in our picture.”

“Not what I meant. You don’t think it’s cruel to make him watch us take family photos when he doesn’t have any family at all?”

“We hardly know the kid.”

“He’s not a stranger, Bobby.”

“You know what I mean.”

“He’s important to Jonah,” Elizabeth says. “That’s what matters. I want him to feel comfortable and not resentful.”

Resentful of what? Our happy family? I’m not concerned with Nick Carpenter’s resentments, but I do care about my son, and Lizzie’s right, of course. Nick has been good for him. Jonah was a grade-A loner those first two years in the dorms, but now he has a roommate who’s also a friend, which means he must have a social life, which means maybe he’ll stop threatening to drop out of college every time the going gets rough, and maybe he’ll figure out what he wants to do with this privileged life of his.

Jonah joins our huddle. “What’s up?”

“Lizzie thinks Nick should be in a picture.”

Disregarding the stage of our current debate, Jonah waves his friend over. So that settles that. Without taking his hands out of the pockets of his rented tuxedo, Nick pushes his body off the table and saunters toward us. He should have shaved for tonight. He should have combed his hair at least, but something tells me this messy look is intentional. Is that the style? And moreover: When did I get old enough to start thinking, Kids these days . . .?

“One more,” Elizabeth tells the photographer, who has been fidgeting with straps and tripods during our family meeting, while awaiting our verdict. To Nick, Lizzie smiles and says, “Get in here.”

And so, once more we squeeze together, pretending to like one another, and this time when the flash pops, we say, Cheese.

•  •  •

Raymond is ready for me when I meet him at the bar. He hands me one of the gin and tonics in his hands and clinks my glass with his. “Nice speech you gave up there, Sergio de Berniac.”

“Cyrano,” I say. We drink.

“What?”

“Cyrano de Bergerac.”

“Okay, Yale-boy,” he mocks.

“Hey, I’m not the only Yalie in the house tonight, dickhead.”