Sinatra, Judy, and two of the new arrivals—one had an impressive and loud Texas twang, the other had a delightful explosion of freckles that reminded Charlie of a Jackson Pollock—took their drinks to lounge chairs. On her way to the chairs, Lola stopped at Sinatra’s impressive outdoor hi-fi and turned on the radio; “Runaround Sue” began blasting, and some of the young women started dancing. Charlie looked at their host; he seemed okay with Dion, but soon enough the song ended and another one began, and before Elvis Presley could even utter the words When we kiss, my heart’s on fire from his hot single “Surrender,” Sinatra’s placid smile melted into a look of disgust and he threw his drink at the nearest speaker.

“Turn off that goddamn mumble monkey!” he yelled, and Jacobs quickly restored order to the universe by putting his boss’s Swing Along with Me on the turntable. “Don’t Cry, Joe (Let Her Go, Let Her Go, Let Her Go)” began playing.

But Texas Twang and Freckles couldn’t figure out how to dance to it after the much faster song that had preceded it. Even this new “swingier” version of Sinatra’s 1949 recording felt old. Charlie caught one of the young women rolling her eyes at her friend.

“Put on the covers, George,” Sinatra ordered.

Jacobs brought out an LP and soon they were all listening to Sinatra singing Carl Perkins’s “Blue Suede Shoes.”

“Just a lark,” Sinatra explained. “Made an album of rock covers for my daughters. Maybe we’ll release it sometime.” Everyone smiled at the privilege of being let in on the secret while dancing to Sinatra singing Richard’s “Tutti Frutti,” then his take on Gene Vincent’s “Be-Bop-a-Lula,” followed by his version of “Tequila” by the Champs.

“Fantastic,” Charlie called out to Sinatra. He was half sincere, half ass-kissing, and worried for a second that he had gone too far. But Sinatra raised a glass in return and Charlie exhaled.

As the sun began to sink behind the mountains, taking its comfortable warmth along with it, Sinatra and his guests kept themselves warm with the help of Jacobs’s endless supply of cocktails: screwdrivers and mai tais, then the spiciest margarita Charlie had ever had, then a surprisingly strong Pimm’s cup—a purposeful nod by Jacobs to Lawford’s British roots. Before long, most of the others were dancing while Charlie lingered in the hot tub, pruning like an octogenarian, and Sinatra sat at the Jacuzzi’s edge, feet submerged.

“The place looks great,” Charlie said to his host. “You’re ready for JFK’s visit.”

“You know, Congressman, I don’t even know for sure that TP is going to stay here,” Sinatra said. “I haven’t gotten a straight answer or even a call back from anyone real since the Ambassador had his stroke.”

“What does Lawford say?” Charlie said.