Earlier, when I told Kate as much, she laughed, because she knew the collar was the least of my sadnesses. “Honey, I know this is a terrible time for a party.”

“Yes,” I said. “I think so.”

“But if you don’t feel like going, stay home. Anna and I will be fine . . .”

“No, I’m going.”

“Okay, but then please don’t be so glum.”

I understood her point. If you’re going to a party, be in the proper mood. And besides, hadn’t I ruined the last party we attended? So I put on my best party face, determined to be a positive force despite the inner turmoil I felt. Kate made it easy. When she emerged from our tiny bathroom to model the borrowed dress, I had no words beyond “Wow.” But she knew by my expression, by the way my eyes welled, that I was sincere. She appreciated, too, that I laughed at her little joke: “We need to be home by midnight,” she said, “otherwise, I may turn into a pumpkin.” I was even able to shake off the rude greeting given by the dinner ’s hostess, Abigail Hosford. She met us at the front door wearing an unfortunate bright red dress that made her look like a giant Christmas ornament. When she greeted Anna, Abigail seemed star-struck. However, her smile froze when she realized we’d come in place of Philip Ashworth. Later, when Kate whispered her annoyance that Anna hadn’t forewarned the Hosfords, I said sweetly, “Aw, honey, don’t be so glum.”

Abigail Hosford clinked her glass with a fork and gave a succinct speech about the purpose of the evening. She mentioned the homeless man whom “several of us had befriended” and asked that we “all think of others less fortunate.” We bowed our heads.

After an appropriate silence, Abigail explained why she had elected to seat the men in one room and the women in another, explaining to the gathered guests, “This is how they used to do it.” And it was a bad idea then, too, I thought. But she would never know what I thought, because I welcomed her announcement with an easy smile and a gentle shrug.

“Poor Tim,” Anna said as I was ushered off into the other half of the parlor floor, where I sat among the men, who talked about man things. Stocks. Alma maters. A rather boisterous conversation about the skills and dexterity required to excel at squash, a sport I knew next to nothing about, but who would know by the way I nodded and seemed to agree?

“You play?” one man said.

I smiled as if to say, Oh, all the time.

Sitting to his right, a pink-cheeked doughnut of a man in a shiny tuxedo stared at my untouched plate of seared salmon and broccoli rabe. “You aren’t eating,” he observed.

“That’s correct.”

“Why aren’t you eating?”

“I haven’t much of an appetite.”