Before Fitz could even begin to sort out his feelings—Corey was the first thing he thought of, then himself, then whichever man might or might not be called next, and what if it was Hollingshead?—Tim was fishing in the hat again, and here came the strip of paper and the widening smile and in the next breath the announcement they were all waiting for. Which—and this was the nature of the game—came as a jolt of surprise because everyone had been thinking of a man, of sex, because that was the attraction here, that was the titillation, a kind of communal spin the bottle no matter the psychological rationale. Tim didn’t call Ken’s name or Royce’s or Hollingshead’s, but Fanchon’s, and after a moment of stunned silence the applause started up again, along with the laughter and catcalls. “A woman’s work is never done,” Charlie piped up, and somebody else—it was Hollingshead, seated in back—added, “Or Sappho’s either.”

No matter—from Fanchon’s reaction you would have thought she’d won the Miss America contest. She let out a squeal of delight and clapped her hands, applauding for herself. “Oh, this is so nice,” she said, springing up from where she was seated at the edge of the carpet so everyone could see her, “my best friend!” She skipped across the room to Joanie and reached down a hand to help her to her feet and then, their hands entwined, raised them high in triumph. “We will have a vacation, no?” she cried. “Bon voyage!”

He was thinking of the first time he’d made love with her—in Mexico it was, that first summer—and how she’d come to him in darkness when he was in the lifeguard tower navigating his way through his weekly session. The sea thundered against the shore and everything smelled of the first life the earth had known and the three-quarters moon was making a light show of each rippling wave all the way out to infinity and suddenly there she was, Fanchon, in her two-piece, and she didn’t say a word, just eased down his swim trunks and took him in her mouth. She was shorter than Joanie, more compact in her torso, and her breasts were higher and smaller but she was warm and wet and he slipped into her—deep, so deep—and hardly knew the difference.

“All right,” Tim said, and he was on his feet too, “now that’s settled, let’s go in and join the party.”

You’re joking, right?” Corey said.

“No, not at all. Luck of the draw. I’ll probably be next.”