Susannah Eggers, who’d been tipping farther and farther back in her chair, plainly exhausted, came to life at the sound of her daughter’s name. She righted the chair, snapped, “Nancy, behave yourself!” and gave the child a withering look, though she didn’t seem to know what the fuss was all about. It was a general admonition though and all the children seemed to absorb it, even as Dick raised his glass high and cried, “Let them eat cake!” and the children, one by one, drained their glasses and began to slink off, whether to bed or some unscripted adventure that had nothing to do with unpacking or worrying over what to wear for the first day at their new school or even getting sufficient sleep, Joanie couldn’t say. Or even imagine. She was occupied with her own drama, which at the moment involved Tim, who certainly wasn’t going to let the festivities die, was he?

Eventually, as people got up to clear away the dishes—“I’ll wash them in the morning,” she heard herself offer—and Tim passed around snifters and a decanter of cognac, things settled into a familiar pattern, some drifting off, some staying on to extend the evening. The record changed and changed again. At some point Charlie put on a record by an English pop group called the Beatles that was a jangle of guitars and heavy obvious drumbeats and Tim, in the middle of a story about an animal he swore was a wolf loping across the face of one of the hills out back (“This place is wild, I’m telling you”), looked up with a pained expression and said, “Jesus, take that racket off, will you, Charlie?” and Fitz seconded him.

“Just listen,” Charlie said, ignoring them both. “Because what you’re hearing is the sound of the future. Hear it? Hear those harmonies? Tell me that’s not catchy—”

“Give me jazz or give me death,” Fitz said, draining his snifter and looking as if he were about to fling it against the wall. He was tired, she could see that. And drunk.

But the Beatles went on, singing about love, and Charlie danced around the room, snapping his fingers and mugging like a lounge singer. “Dig it,” he said, leaning into Tim and mouthing the simplistic words—“Love, love me do”—and making a general ass of himself. “This is only available in England now—remember Pete Meister, my amigo who runs the print shop in Cambridge? He brought it back with him over the summer, so you are listening to the rarest of the rare. And mark my words—this is going to blow the lid off everything.”