But first he must deal with the wine.

Gorham didn’t have a large wine cellar, but he knew quite a bit, and was proud of his modest collection. The storage cages down in the building’s basement were about ninety-five degrees, so he kept his wine up at the country house, and for an occasion like this, he’d collect what he wanted from there and bring it down to the apartment, where he had a temperature-controlled unit. After the menu had been chosen last week, he’d selected some bottles of a French Chablis, an excellent Californian Pinot Noir he could trust, and a wonderful dessert wine, made in small quantities by a winery he’d discovered that was owned by a rich dentist in San Francisco.

He had some nice decanters that had come originally from the old family house in Gramercy Park and he liked to use them. But one had to be careful with Pinot Noir and not decant it too early. Kent had a considerable knowledge of wines himself, so the two of them had an enjoyable five minutes discussing the wines and agreeing on the arrangements for serving them.

Then he turned to have a few words with Katie.

On the outside, especially when she was working, Katie seemed such a serious little person, everything neatly in place, her face scrubbed. She was as perfect as a Meissen doll. Yet underneath was a bright girl with a wicked sense of humor. He talked to her while she was unwrapping the hors d’oeuvres. She gave him a smile.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“You’re in my way.”

“Sorry.” He moved to one side. “How’s Rick?” The boyfriend. The fiancé, now—they were getting married next year.

“He’s fine. We’ve found a house.”

“Where?”

“New Jersey.”

“That’s great.”

“It is. If we can find the money.”

“Think you can?”

“Probably. If my business goes well. And if…”

“What?”

“You get out of my way.”

He laughed. “I’m off,” he said. Young Rick, in his opinion, was a lucky man.

As he wanted to look in himself, he took a taxi with the boys to the party, rather than waste time parking the car. The party was in a big Midtown hotel, so it only took a few minutes to get there. A sign in the lobby directed them to a large elevator down a passage, and moments later they were emerging on an upper floor and entering the wonderful world of Greg Cohen’s bar mitzvah party.

Mrs. Cohen had clearly decided she wanted this to be a very special occasion. She had chosen a theme, and even hired a designer who, by the look of things, had brought in an army of decorators, flower arrangers and scenery-makers. And so it was, this evening, that this vast Midtown hotel ballroom had been transformed, as though by magic, into a tropical island. Along the right-hand wall was a sandy beach, fringed with seagrass and even, here and there, a palm tree. On the left side was the dance floor, complete with DJ and professional dancers. There were fairground booths of every kind, offering prizes that you could take away too, in addition to the bag of party favors you’d get at the end. Still more impressive, the whole of the back of the room was filled with a reconstruction of a roller coaster. And in the center of everything, in pride of place and serving now, was a hot-dog stand.