I watched Rhys Portis’s arm extend out onto the back of the couch, inching closer to where Vanessa’s pale-blond hair met her white sweater.

“I think he’s after your sister,” I said.

“Rhys Portis has been in love with Vanessa for forever. Even back when she wasn’t so much to look at.”

“Should Arch be worried?”

“Well, it would serve him right if she did make it with Rhys Portis. But get real,” Jamie said. “Would any girl in the world take a douche like Portis over Arch? Look at him. Overdressed for the occasion, as usual. Like he thinks only boarding school kids ever wear neckties. You want a drink?”

Jamie reached behind his “ash tree” and pulled out a half-full fifth of Jack Daniel’s. I shook my head.

Jamie unscrewed the bottle and turned it up. He winced and gasped.

“Where’d you get that?”

“From the catering table,” he said.

He took another pull.

“I better check on my mom,” I said.

“What, you’re going to make me drink alone?”

“She doesn’t know anybody,” I said. “I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

“Suit yourself.”

I left Jamie and walked through the woods out to the lawn. A scattering of stars lit up the sky over the bright windows of the great house. When I reached the patio, I peered inside, scanning the faces of the guests, holding cocktail tumblers or champagne flutes and little plates of canapés in hand or perched on knees. I spotted my mother at the center of a long couch, flanked by Mrs. Creigh and a man who looked to be about my mother’s age, a little thick around the middle, hair slicked back, with plump cheeks and thick eyebrows. My mother looked as if she was having a terrific time listening to this fellow, his fat face animated with the rare good luck of showing up to a holiday party and ending up next to a woman like her.

I heard the sound of laughter. I turned and saw Miss Whitten, smoking a cigarette, talking to Arch, of all people.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted.

The two of them turned with a start.

Miss Whitten exhaled a funnel of smoke and smiled. “We were just talking about you.”

She seemed very different, and not just because of the cigarette. Whenever I imagined Miss Whitten away from the classroom, I saw her in some austere room, seated in front of a canvas, brush in hand, eyes focused and intent—not hanging around at a holiday party in Belle Meade.

“What were you saying about me?” I asked.

“Arch caught me indulging in this dirty little habit of mine,” Miss Whitten said. “He told me you were around somewhere.”

“And here you are,” Arch said. “Where’s Jamie? You ditch him?”

“I thought I should check on my mother.”

“She seems okay,” Arch said, nodding toward the window.