Merle didn’t think the Porters, the owner’s children, were around, and so Polly and Edmund ran up the steps and into the woods toward the larger estate. There was nothing as beautiful as the old stables, painted with moons and stars. If only the horses were still there. When they heard voices, they bolted back down to the lawn, panicked.

“Beware,” said Dee, nodding toward the Porters, who had appeared at the top of the path. “Try the labyrinth.”

Dee knew they loved that word. In the maze, they’d stashed a hamper with food and sodas, towels and comic books, underused suntan lotion, a leaky float ring. Dee gave them an umbrella—a parasol—for the sun, and “the better to hide you.” They set up camp in the farthest corner of the maze, the corner closest to the beach, with a gap in the yews that gave a view of the water. By going back and forth, they knew that no one could see this corner or patch of beach from the party lawn, but they could (with Merle’s binoculars, taken from the glove box of the car) see the path up to the stables. The Porters never came closer than the top step on the hill, but Polly and Edmund used them as an excuse for squirrelly behavior. They took to their camp in the hedge; they took to the water. They ran west to the boat; they made a map of the party grounds with other hiding places and the food locations. The water was warm, and they walked out as far as they could touch and stayed still, waiting for fish, using a single broken scuba mask to watch fry swarm and nibble at their skinny shins. They took turns holding each other upside down to see the bottom, to try to see a scallop’s eyes, to try to see a clam move. A larger shadow would send them shrieking back to shore, which always brought a pissed-off adult down to the beach.

The house and lawn filled up, and the brothers opened Champagne. As the food came out, Edmund and Polly raced around, pilfering shrimp, choosing which people to spy on and taking notes. Tall, stripes, Nazi. Or: Yellow tie and polka dot lady kissed by fountain. People gave speeches, the words drifting across the lawn and through the hedge, marooned of meaning. Halfway through a final car arrived, carrying Rita and her agent and the stocky gallery owner who had been to the wild party, the one when Dee and Papa were in the city. They listened politely to the speeches, and then walked to the drinks table. The gallery owner accepted a glass and held it away from Rita, shaking his head to the bartender; she hopped playfully, and he shook his head again.