Rochelle came out from the kitchen with the guacamole in a stainless steel mixing bowl. She hadn’t bothered to transfer it to her fancy chips ’n dips serving piece. She dumped it on the coffee table, then carelessly ripped open a bag of chips.

“Dig in, gals,” she said, stepping over the chips that had fallen on the carpet. “Sorry the guac’s turned brown, but it’s been sitting in the fridge since four o’clock this afternoon. Oh, well. Tough tacos.”

And with that she plopped back down onto the sofa and went back to sucking on her margarita.

What with the atmosphere being so strained, nobody had much of an appetite.

Nobody except me.

I dug into the guacamole with gusto. But it wasn’t nearly as nice as it had been last week. Not only was it brown on top, but it was missing all those giant chunks of avocado. It had been pureed in the blender too long, so it looked more like pea soup than guacamole. And it had a strange, greasy aftertaste.

Between the greasy brown guacamole and the burnt empanadas, I was glad Pam and I had stopped off at the Jack in the Box. I only wished I’d ordered extra cheese on my Jumbo Jack. I was just reaching for a handful of chips when Marybeth came sweeping back into the room.

“The dogwoods look super!” She beamed at Rochelle. “Just super. The perfect finishing touch.”

Rochelle sat silently, her shoulders hunched, running her finger around the rim of her margarita glass.

By now the tension in the room was so thick you could cut it with a hacksaw. But Marybeth, still pretending everything was peachy keen, perched herself down next to Rochelle and announced:

“Guess what, everybody! I’ve got yummy news.”

Rochelle looked up from her margarita glass.

“Screw your yummy news.”

Marybeth’s smile vanished.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Rochelle said. “Screw your yummy news. We’re all sick of your sunshine blather.”

Marybeth could no longer pretend that nothing was wrong.

“Rochelle, what’s got into you?”

“No, the question is, what’s got into you, Marybeth? Or should I say, who’s got into you?”

A faint blush crept into Marybeth’s cheeks.

“Listen up, everybody,” Rochelle said, taking a healthy slug of what had to be her fourth margarita. “I’ve got news. Big news. I was right about Marty. He is having an affair. I found this in his underwear drawer, right next to a package of condoms.”

She pulled out a photo from the pocket of her sweatpants and tossed it onto the coffee table.

Ashley, who was sitting closest to it, picked it up and gasped.

“Holy Moses!” she said, and passed it around. It was a color photo of Marybeth, sprawled out on what looked like a motel bed, wearing nothing but a smile and a pair of crotchless panties.