I drove to Summit Drive on a sunny Saturday afternoon wearing a broad-brimmed sun hat and a pale yellow sundress that complemented my tan. The family was celebrating Gordon Junior’s ninth birthday at Leon’s house with a party by the pool. By the time I arrived, Gordon Junior had already gotten his big present, a miniature car that he was barreling around the pool area and over the grass, honking the horn, scaring the hell out of his younger siblings, crowing with delight, and alarming the servants who were bringing drinks and food. All Irene’s children are brats, even the two-year-old, Cindy. I put my present on the table, and set myself the task of being genial while I braced myself for the possibility that my grandfather would guess I was representing the work of a man he thought to be a traitor to America. In the two weeks since I’d sent the scripts to Elliott, I’d had more than one attack of sender’s remorse, made worse because I could share my anxiety with no one, not even Thelma. After all, she was on record as disapproving.

There was an empty chaise beside Irene, who looked as though she had been carved in white marble. She wore a sort of beach peignoir, since she burned easily, and smoke lazed up from her cigarette. “Where’s Jonathan?” she asked.

“Probably nursing a hangover.” I thanked Clarence as he handed me a Campari and soda. “I went to a party at Casa Fiesta last night where everyone but me was beautiful and drunk.”

“You are beautiful.”

“Oh, come on. I might be smart. I might have a French education and a father knighted by the queen, I might own a diamond ring, a diamond choker, ruby earrings, and a rope of perfect pearls, but you know as well as I, I will never be beautiful.”

“Then why weren’t you drunk?”

“Al Gilbert was camped outside in his car taking names, and it just struck me as tawdry. I think I might have outgrown Casa Fiesta.”

“About time. Jonathan should be outgrowing it too.”

“Oh, I doubt that will happen.” I didn’t say more. Didn’t want to be disloyal and admit that Jonathan’s need for an ever-shifting entourage of affection sauced with competition was just short of insatiable.

Denise floated over to us. She wore a turquoise beach cover-up cinched at the waist that emphasized her long, shapely legs. She adjusted a table umbrella to shade her fair skin. We chatted, cotton candy talk, sweet but insubstantial, as she settled into a chair by my side. Then she said, “Elliott Dunne gave me two scripts by your writer, Roxanne. Tell me about this Charles Frye. Why haven’t I ever heard of him?”

“He’s young, like me. Like you.” I was glad we were all wearing sunglasses.