Alice’s eyes resumed their scan. Where was Charlie? She’d peeled off from Alice as soon as they’d set foot in the clubhouse. Had gone off in search of Jude and Cybill, no doubt. Had found them, too. At least, had found Cybill. The two girls were sitting on one of the old leather couches by the bridge table, talking. Jude was on the other side of the room, leaning against the bar. He was wearing his seersucker suit, silver flask playing peekaboo in the breast pocket, sunglasses clamped to his face even though the sun had long since set, making a play for Lucy, the pretty college-age tennis pro, in a blatant way. And she wasn’t discouraging him. On the contrary, she seemed amused by his behavior, maybe even charmed by it. Charlie, though, not so much. She was seething. Not that anyone would be able to tell, but Alice could: the narrowness of her eyes, the tightness of her lips, a darker shade than usual—new lipstick?—the way her nose appeared slightly sharper than normal. Though she was carrying on a conversation with Cybill, and in a pretty convincing fashion, all her attention, Alice knew, was concentrated on Jude.