I traced the edge of a framed photograph, a black-and-white shot of lounging partygoers from the 1920s. “I always felt like I was behind glass. There was me and my family and the musicians and . . . everybody else.”

“Yes.” Oscar stopped walking and turned to me, hollowed by the glow from the wall sconces. “That’s exactly what . . .” He shook his head, a line between his brows. “Did you know there was a human exhibit at the Bronx Zoo?”

I laughed, shocked. “What?”

“Way back. They kept a man in an enclosure. An African, a Pygmy.”

“Oh my God. That’s . . .” I couldn’t think of the right word.

But Oscar’s expression cleared, as if by force. “Hey. Come here, you.”

We ducked into the next empty room we came across. Oscar turned toward me, his fingers grazing my back, our hips touching first.

I heard a noise in the darkness—shuffling feet—and spun with a gasp.

Nora Visser and Bill Rustig stood at the far end of the room, veering away from each other like they’d just finished saying hello in passing. Nora walked briskly toward us, drawing herself up to her full, tiny height, while Bill stood in place, powered down.

My own body went pins and needles. I’d seen nothing. I knew I wasn’t supposed to have seen it.

“Oscar and Ruby!” Nora chirped. “We were looking for you two.”

In a random room. With the lights off.

Bill reanimated enough to amble over, hand extended. “Thanks for coming out tonight.”

“Absolutely,” Oscar said, his own back straightening as he shook Bill’s hand. “It’s my pleasure, thank you for the invitation.”

Nora motioned out. “Shall we?”

She glanced fleetingly in my direction as she linked arms with Oscar, then did a double take. “Oh my goodness, Ruby.” She pressed her hand to her heart—because of the necklace? “You hired a stylist.”

I beamed. Jules would die if she could hear this conversation.

“Promise you’ll give me her name,” Nora called over her shoulder.

“I will. But you look perfect already!” I motioned to her sequined dress, then smiled at my feet, following the others into the glass-walled events room.

The reception was in at least half swing, sleek twenty- and thirty-somethings clustered around high-rise tables, drinking champagne and cocktails from an open bar as a string quartet performed in the corner.

I snuck a peek at the musicians, confirming that, yep, despite how polished they sounded, they were nearly as young as I was. Amberley. I wondered if they felt like there was glass separating us.