I won’t lie, it took me all afternoon and a couple of years’ worth of favors to round up a cast like that one. I won’t name any names, but you’ve heard of them. I take Barbara’s arm and proceed straight up to the maître d’ at his elegant mahogany podium. “Reservation for eight, front row. Macallister party.”

The maître d’ looks at me and at Barbara and at me again. He leans forward and says, under his breath, “There seems to have been some mistake.”

“No mistake. A celebration dinner, a case of your best champagne at least.”

“Miss Macallister, I don’t think you understand.”

“What’s to understand? Are we not dressed in the approved style?”

“No, your dress—your dress”—he’s trying to avert his eyes from Barbara—“your dress is—well enough—but we have other rules, madam, for the comfort of our customers—”

“Oh. Oh, dear. I see what you mean. How careless of me.” I turn to the group behind me. “My darlings, there seems to be some trouble. Apparently somebody in our party isn’t quite up to snuff when it comes to the strict moral standards of the Palmetto Club. I expect it’s you, M—.”

Everybody laughs. I spin back to the maître d’, who’s caught a glimpse of the faces assembled behind me and turned a fine shade of strawberry pink.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Billings. We quite understand your predicament. In fact, I feel certain that none of us will trouble you for entry into this”—I cast a supercilious glance around the lobby—“this fine old establishment, ever again. Will we, ladies?”

“Certainly not,” says M—.

“And we’ll pass the word to our friends, as well. God forbid the Palmetto should be forced to admit just anyone.”

At that instant, the telephone rings atop Mr. Billings’s fine mahogany podium. He lifts the receiver and says Palmetto Club, quavering voice. Then—Yes, sir. Then—No, sir. Then—Right away, sir.

He sets down the receiver and clears his throat.

“If you’ll follow me, ladies,” he says, and he leads us through the archway into the club, where the world-famous Bobby Blue Orchestra tunes up to the rhythm of a dozen popping champagne corks.

Iris

APRIL 1940

Rome, Italy

When Ruth stumbled out of her bedroom and asked where Iris was going, Iris told her a lie.

“Just for a walk,” she said.

Ruth looked her up and down, from the top of her dark, curling head, to her pink lipstick to her blue dress with the Peter Pan collar, crutches, stockings, leather slingback shoe, and plaster cast held an inch or two above the floorboards. When she returned to Iris’s face, she wore that tiny smile at the corner of her mouth. Ruth tightened the belt on her purple silk kimono. “Is that so?”

“I need a little fresh air, that’s all.”