But Betterson was quick to jump in with, “Vivi, you’ve no cause for getting all twitchy. Of course we need you.”

“We value your contribution greatly,” echoed McAlmon.

Genevieve looked only at Betterson. “You told me I was to be more than just The Money. But you’re keeping me well away from the creative side of things.”

“Nonsense, honey,” said Betterson. “We love it when you create. Don’t we, Bob?”

“Absolutely.” McAlmon smiled, and the creature in his mouth almost broke free.

Darkness crept over the party, broken only by an occasional flash from the photographer. The trees in the little park were strung with colored lights that swayed in the breeze. People thronged on and off the rust-bucket barge with their drinks and cigarettes, their cherries and pieces of Brie, arms slung around each other’s necks and waists, lip touching lip, thigh rubbing up against thigh. Suits and summer dresses, rags, riches…They were such a disparate crowd—how was it they all seemed to know each other so well? Genevieve, wandering along by the water, took one of her jade earrings off and absently tossed it into the air. She watched it make a high arc and drop down into the river.

“Hey, Genevieve.” Betterson had followed her down the shore.

“What?” She didn’t look at him. Didn’t feel like talking to him.

“We got a bit carried away, Bob and me. You see, we go way back. He’s good for the magazine, trust me on that. And he writes like a dream.”

“Unlike me.” Genevieve kept her gaze on the water, not wanting to look Betterson in the eye. “My poems are no good. We both know it.”

He took a moment before speaking, trying, no doubt, to think of a way to be tactful. “No, my darling. And I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do about it. This game isn’t about how nice you are or how deserving or even how hard you work—though God knows you do have to work. None of it’s any use if you don’t have the gift in the first place.”

Genevieve felt heavy. Her mouth felt too heavy to smile. Even her individual fingers and toes felt heavy. Betterson moved closer to her. She sensed he wanted to comfort her with some simple physical gesture—to put an arm around her or take hold of her hand. But he held back.

“Why should you care if you can’t write good poetry? You’re a beautiful girl. What’s more, you’ve got character. And money too.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Don’t I? It seems to me that you’re laboring under a common illusion. Writing doesn’t make us happy. Usually it makes us miserable. We do it because we have to.”