Diana turned to us and shouted, “You see that man on trumpet? That, my friends, is the sexiest man who ever drew breath. Don’t you doubt it. I’ve never had it so good as I have with him.” She nodded toward the bandstand as she rolled and thrust her hips.

The band took a break, and the trumpet player ambled over to us, and right there in front of God and everyone, he took Diana in his arms and kissed her on the lips for a very long time, as much an act of ownership as passion. She laced her arms around his neck and went nearly limp in his arms. Admitting publicly to an affair with a Negro? That was over the top. Even for Diana Jordan. Bongo and the two actors put down their drinks and left without another word.

“You lily-livered stupidshits!” Diana called out, laughing at their retreating backs. Then she introduced Jonathan and me to Booker Dexter.

Except for the name, I wouldn’t have known him immediately as Terrence Dexter’s brother. He was not as tall, nor as handsome, as Terrence, who at that very minute I saw across the room, deep in conversation with none other than Clayton Strong and his girlfriend, Rita. Something Clayton said made Terrence throw his head back and laugh out loud, very unlike the man who had given me a ride in his Porsche. He turned and saw me, and as his eyes met mine surprise lit his features. An unlooked-for frisson of delight rushed through me as he crossed the smoky room with a smile on his face.

“Miss Granville.”

“Mr. Dexter. I’m so sorry I didn’t thank you for the ride the other day. It was unforgivable.”

“No, really, I’m sorry I drove off in a huff. That deer had me really rattled.”

“I’ve never been so scared.”

“I lost my cool. I apologize.”

“You know this chick?” asked Booker.

“We’ve met.” He gave me an intimate smile.

“Crazy, man! My uncle working for your grandfather,” said Booker after all the intros, connections, and exclamations were exchanged. “Terrence tell you all we used to park cars at your granddaddy’s? ‘Yessir, lemme park that Jag for you, sir!’ Terrence, he once drove a Jag halfway to Santa Barbara and still had it back when the party ended.”

“Don’t ever let Clarence know,” said Terrence seriously.

“You dig the music?” Booker asked Jonathan and me. “West Coast Cool.”

“Sure,” said Jonathan. “Can’t dance to it, though.”

“Don’t have to. It gets you here”—his hand splayed over his heart—“and here”—down to his guts—“and here.” He grabbed his groin and laughed, then threw an arm over Diana’s shoulders, and they meandered away, probably out to her car.