“Kit, darling. As much as I like you hovering under normal circumstances, you are in my way at the moment.” Alice gently moved him aside and transferred the heavy pan from the range onto the counter. She and Opal began spooning the oyster mixture into the pastry cups, while Alice continued to give instructions to the rest of the kitchen staff. Good thing she’d been training Opal to run the kitchen, because she would soon be unavailable.

After summoning the waiters to deliver the food, Kit leaned over and whispered, “I’ll leave you alone for now. But you are mine after everyone leaves.”

Alice bit her lip and shook her head. “Do not distract me. I need to concentrate.”

Raising his hands in surrender, he left the kitchen and went to his office. He’d wait there while looking through paperwork. When he burst through the door, he came to an abrupt halt. Preston was seated in Kit’s chair, feet up on the desk, while Harrison lounged in an armchair. Both were smoking cigars and looking quite at home. “Have I missed an invitation?”

“No,” Harrison said. “You never invite us here, though I haven’t the faintest idea why.”

“Exactly,” Preston agreed. “And I am part owner, for Christ’s sake.”

“Because the club requires paying members with cachet.” Kit went over and lifted a fresh cigar out of the holder on the desk. “Neither of you qualify.”

“I have plenty of cachet.” Preston tossed Kit a lighter. “Or have you forgotten who ultimately convinced Hearst to kill that story about your wife?”

“Yes, fine. You have cachet. This one”—he pointed at Harrison—“is only accepted at social events because his wife is a minor sporting celebrity.”

“A sporting celebrity who is never home,” Harrison grumbled as he checked his pocket watch. “I’m leaving in two hours for Cincinnati where I’ll finally meet up with her.”

“Then why are you here?”

Preston lifted his considerable legs and put his feet on the ground. “We’re here to toast him. It’s been a year.”

“Oh, shit,” Kit said, and dragged a hand through his hair. “A year already. Jesus.”

Forrest had been dead a year. It hardly seemed real sometimes.

Harrison poured clear liquid from a familiar-shaped bottle into three tiny glasses. Kit grimaced. “Is that what I think it is?”

Preston shrugged and stamped out his cigar in the ashtray. “I liked your story about the Irish and their wakes. I asked Nellie where she got the poitín.”

Harrison smelled it. “Christ, that’s strong. Am I going to regret this?”

“Most definitely.” Kit raised his glass. “To Forrest.”

“To Forrest,” the other two men echoed, and they all touched glasses before throwing the liquor down their throats.