Sidney, standing a foot away, was alternating stories of his latest tennis and business coups while trying to appear unaware that Merilee was being devoured by sharks. It never ceased to amaze him how oblivious she was, or how determined. Like an amateur boxer staggering around the ring refusing to take the count.

“The actor? He built houses?”

“Oh my.” Rita sighed and tossed her stiff highlights over one shoulder. She knocked back the last of her champagne and scouted the room distractedly.

“I know who Charlie Chaplin is,” Merilee said, emphatic. It was crucial she salvage the conversation. “He’s dead now, though, right?”

Rita snapped open her evening bag and took out a pack of Benson & Hedges. With a flick of her lighter, she lit her cigarette and inhaled. “Where is that damn champagne?” she muttered gazing past Merilee.

Sidney couldn’t stand it any longer. He felt as if this night would never end. He stood on tiptoes and craned his neck for a waiter with a drink tray. Finally spotting one, Sidney reached over the guests and signaled, causing his neck to go into a spasm. “Christ,” he grimaced, slapping the side of his collar as if he’d been bitten by a mosquito.

“Whatsa matter, hon?” Merilee asked absentmindedly. She was trying to work out where she had gone wrong on the Chaplin thing.

“Nothing is the matter.” Sidney replaced Rita Sanderson’s champagne glass with a fresh one from the tray. He wouldn’t be able to play tennis for days. He picked off a salmon croquette from another tray and tried to ignore the pain.

“So, um, Rita…”

Sidney’s jaw clenched tighter as he watched his wife climb back in the ring.

“I hear you’re pouring a new foundation for the tennis court,” Merilee said brightly.

“Blue,” Dave Sanderson interjected.

“What?”

“The color is blue.”

“Well, good for you. Sidney says it costs a shit wad.”

“Shush,” whispered Sidney through gritted teeth.

“Oh, shush yourself!” Merilee retorted. “Geez. Is it getting warm in here or is it just me?” She drew up her hair and fanned the flush blooming on her neck.

A rally of sharp looks ricocheted between Marge and Rita.

“We can’t have a tennis court at our house,” Merilee continued, taking several steps to the table to retrieve another bunch of carrot sticks. “Everyone in the Colony has to share courts because of the small lot sizes. But we have the beach. I guess that makes up for it. Gosh, I wish I could have another glass of champagne, but the doctor says it’s not good for the baby.”

Sidney stepped closer and put his arm around Merilee, hoping to squeeze her into silence. But Merilee, misunderstanding, snuggled into Sidney and squeezed back.

“Ellen. That is your name, hon, right? Ellen?” Merilee asked.

Ellen Boshwitz, cutting a square figure in a mauve cocktail dress, nodded, her mouth full of crackers.