Just when I think nothing will ever end this dreadfully boring story Lars Clyborne is telling and telling, Frank says, “There’s Hart again,” and lifts his arm in a mariner’s greeting.

“Robert’s son joined them after all,” I say. “Handsome boys, aren’t they?”

The women nod.

“Watch it, ladies,” Frank says, and everyone laughs great big fake belly laughs, as if our wrinkled bodies are in terrible danger of being ravaged by young men. Bonnie is using her hand as a visor even though she’s already wearing one. Monique is waving like she’s just been crowned homecoming queen and this cruiser is her float in the parade.

“He’s a weird guy,” says Frank.

“You’re a weird guy,” I tell Frank. “We’re all weirdos, and for your information, that boat is a collector’s item. In some circles, it’s a prize.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Bull. Frank McAlister is a numbskull who always has to know things, even when he doesn’t. Nouveau-riche and full of shit. It’s only a matter of time before Frank becomes the expert on boats like Robert’s and tries to capitalize on his newfound wisdom.

Frank asks Lars, “Think we’d get a finder’s fee if we hooked him up with a buyer for that boat? I might know a guy who would be interested—”

Well, what do you know? That didn’t take long.

Bonnie starts in on her annoying habit of trying to protect the sanctity of her husband’s precious guy talk with the boys, which means distracting chatty women, which today means complimenting my hair color, even though I bet she hates it—which is precisely why it’s so fun to captivate her with banal details about highlights and lowlights and balayage, making her sorry for patronizing me so she won’t do it again. I’m describing, in great detail, the way Alfonse massages my scalp during shampoo time, when Frank says, “How about a little something to eat?” At which point Bonnie jumps up and says to me, “Excuse me, sweetie. Duty calls.”

I roll my eyes and volunteer to slice saucisson and soppressata while Bonnie unwraps the brie. Monique devotes an obscene level of care to arranging water crackers on a tray like she’s fanning a deck of tarot cards—carbon copies of the same bland, beige fortune—and I’m thinking I’d kill for a little more wild in my life. Boredom’s so bad for the complexion.

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