After the divorce, Phil had given Linda and her sister each $940,000, and they received a smaller gift from him once a year. It was his success, his fame and money that gave us this house, the land, the cars, the furniture, all our accounts and portfolios and investments—we couldn’t have this life on our own; on our own we couldn’t have bought the handmade teak porch swing—and he’d never even seen a picture of the place. I wanted to thank him for it—“Thank you for the house, thank you for the cars”—but I didn’t.

Barbara told us about the wedding they’d been to, all the fancy dresses, tons of food, and Phil yawned. Linda asked if they even wanted any dinner that night. We said we’d get take-out, and we carried their bags inside and put them in the guest room, and they went in and closed the door.

At six we had drinks on the patio. Barbara and Linda drank wine, and I made vodka tonics for Linda’s father and me and put some jazz on the stereo, and the four of us sat down to enjoy the sunset. Phil said something into Linda’s ear and went inside, and through the glass patio doors I saw him throw his drink into the kitchen sink. I went in there. He stood at the counter, picking up bottles of booze. He shook one and held it up to the light. I said, “Is your drink O.K.?” He said the vodka was cloudy. “This is it? This stuff is a hundred years old.” Linda stood in the doorway with her finger in her mouth. I picked up a bottle of schnapps. He said, “You gotta be kidding me.” He blew the dust off a label. Linda went back out and slid the door shut behind her. There were unopened bottles in the cabinet below, and I saw some other type of vodka and grabbed it. I showed it to him. His eyes were bulging out of his head. His teeth were capped. They looked like Chiclets. He took the bottle out of my hand. He made himself a new drink and cut another piece of lime and went back outside. I followed him. I mixed the next round exactly the way he had; he seemed happy with it, and when I looked over again he was stoned.

It got cool as the sun went down. We put on sweaters. Nobody had anything to say. Barbara smiled at us, bobbing her foot to the music. She asked Linda the name of the man who’d designed the house. Linda yawned with her mouth open. I patted the dog’s head. At seven o’clock the delivery guy drove down the driveway with meatball, eggplant, and sausage and pepper grinders.