Luna Parks forced centerpieces on us. “Take them, please,” she insisted. “What am I going to do with twenty dozen rotting roses?”

“Enjoy them,” Elizabeth answered. “Toss petals in a hot bath and relax. You must be exhausted.”

“I feel a little high, to be honest. We made a killing in the silent auction and still sold tickets at the door. Ten steps closer to cutting that ribbon on the Children’s Wing.” She tapped a perfectly manicured fingernail on my lapel. Pink polish with white at the ends. “Seems you bring out the generous in us, Mr. Sag.”

“Hey, I just showed up. The credit is all yours.”

She shook her head violently. “I’m the decorations chair, honey. I don’t do the committee any fiscal favors, believe me.”

“Well,” Elizabeth said, “everything looked beautiful. Money well spent.”

Luna pinched Lizzie’s arm—the sort of childish act of affection that leaves a mark—and said, “No shit.”

Through gritted teeth, Elizabeth asked, “How’s Graham?”

Luna shook her head. “You know, he’s hanging in there. Our doctors say that some people do bounce back from a stroke like his, and you’d better believe that’s what Graham intends to do. He spends more time with his speech therapist these days than with me.” She looked directly at Elizabeth and whispered loudly, “Should I be worried?”

This cracked Luna up, so Elizabeth and I laughed too, but I didn’t say, That’s the least of your worries, lady. In my estimation, anyone who would legally change her name to that of a Coney Island amusement park—yes, even for marriage; even if Parks isn’t Park, I don’t care—is a special kind of crazy ripe for worries. Society at large should be worried, frankly. She didn’t even hyphenate.

Elizabeth forced a sleepy smile and said, “Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

“You can take some of these damn arrangements off my hands. They’re going in the trash if you refuse.”

We refused, but she insisted, so we waited for Luna to get her car, and we waited for her to find the perfect parking spot, and we helped load decorations into the back of her Expedition; and when we’d finished, we let her drive us to my car just so we could undo half of what we’d just done, transferring arrangements we didn’t want in the first place, tiling the trunk of my Audi with glass cubes full of marbles and white flowers. Now what am I supposed to do with ten dozen rotting roses?