The buyer makes a note. “And what about teddies?”

“Small, definitely,” says Melissa. Like a cheerleader at the start of her season—gain 5 pounds or lose 5 pounds, you’re on probation—she has stayed 107 since 1998, when her last child was born. “Some medium.” Then she remembers Brenda George, the third baseman’s wife, who must’ve gained 20 pounds since September, not that she was skinny then. “A few larges, too.”

A subset of the wives decide to get their hair done. Not that it’s necessary—they’ll be pulling tops on and off all night—but because a blowout is fun. One of Jimmy Cardozo’s “girlfriends” is there, getting her hair reddened to the color the stylist calls cinnamon, and she squeals, foil wrappers shaking, when the group comes in. They vaguely remember meeting her at Liana’s party, but the girl, Cynthia, has their names down pat. The way the hellos go, the hugs and leading questions and wide, expectant smiles: Melissa has no choice but to invite her along. Cleat chaser, Melissa thinks, even as she says, “See you later, Cynth.”

Maggie’s house has an open floor plan, the kitchen’s marble island opening into the cathedral-ceilinged great room. That chef Liana used was not available, so Maggie offered the cute cheese guy at Whole Foods $300 to set up some finger food. He’s done well: the dining room table is decked out with a vertiginous cheese tower, a platter covered with an elaborate pattern of sushi, and a tray of jigsawed crudités.

Turns out Chad, that’s his name, is in design school. “Graduate degree in textiles, ma’am.” Maggie does not like being called ma’am under any circumstance, and a grimace floats over her face before passing back into a smile.

Chad has brought a friend, Eric—“painter, good at mixing things”—to man the bar, which is set with magnums of moscato, prosecco, and sauvignon, three oversize Grey Goose bottles lined up like so many members of the cavalry. When Maggie comes into the kitchen in her dress and heels, he is ready, and raises a tumbler in salute. “Miss Maggie”—slightly better than ma’am—“try this.”

He’s holding a caramel-colored cocktail, something that she can smell from four feet. “What is it?”

“I call it the Desert Sun. Similar to a sidecar, but with whiskey.”

Maggie accepts the glass and draws it to her lips, eyebrows going up at the sound of the doorbell. “Mmm. Thank you, Eric,” she says before clacking away. She swings through the living room on the way to the front, waving at Chantelle, Neiman’s underwear girl, who is laying out silk robes in emerald and sapphire and cabernet. “We good here?”

The woman smiles and nods, “Oh, yes.”

“Love that purple one,” Maggie says, pointing at the latest deposit on the footstool. “And try one of his deserted cocktails.” She raises the tumbler. “It’s delicious.” The doorbell peals again.