She stops a foot away from me and mouths, Sorry, as she points to her phone. I mouth, No problem. She doesn’t seem to be concerned about my overhearing her conversation, so I simply wait for her to finish up.

“Mãe, I know,” she says, crossing her eyes. “There’s nothing to worry about. Of course we have clean sheets. Yes, yes, and coffee. Sugar too. Sure, bring towels if you want. Tá. Vejo você amanhã. Te amo!”

“What was that about?” I ask.

“Our cousins from Brazil are coming to visit next weekend. A couple of them are bunking with Brandon and me, and my mother wants to be sure we’ll have everything they’ll need.”

“That’s considerate of her.”

Solange tucks her phone into her purse—a little crossbody number that probably can’t hold more than a few items—then drapes the bag over her shoulder. “Dean, she asked if I had enough toilet paper for everyone to wipe their butts for at least three days. She’s the most inconsiderate person I know.”

“But you love her.”

Wearing a wistful expression, she quickly agrees. “More than anyone else in the world.” She scans my face and outfit, then curves her red-stained lips into a wide smile. “You look great, by the way.”

“Not half as great as you.”

She curtsies. “Why, thank you.” Then she glances at the row home. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Kimberly bowed out. Nia wasn’t feeling well.”

“And Peter?”

“Molly’s pissed at Peter. They’re not coming.”

She sighs, then blows out a raspberry. “Wait. Are you telling me I could be lying on my couch in my sweats right now? Eating Cherry Garcia and watching The Circle, no less?”

I can’t help grinning. She’s nothing if not honest. A party like this one, attended by DC’s elite and trading on its exclusive vibe, is the last place Solange would choose to go. Honestly, this isn’t my bag either, but I regard it as a necessary evil of firm life. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to bother going inside.”

She sweeps her arms out to her sides. “Do you see this outfit? These shoes?” She points at her mouth. “This is Velvet Ribbon by Lisa Eldridge.”

I purse my lips. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Neither do I,” she says, her hands flailing. “But Natalia sure does. Point is, I made an effort tonight, and I expect to be rewarded with a nice glass of wine and decent hors d’oeuvres.”

“Well then, let’s go inside,” I say, mimicking her flailing hands.

Her whole face lights up, and she slips her arm through mine. “Let’s!”

The guy at the door looks as though he practices how to body-slam people as part of his daily exercise regimen. Everything about him is broad: chest, shoulders, thighs. He’s a slab of granite large enough to custom-fit a sizable kitchen island. Why is he necessary?

“Hey,” I say to him.

He looks me dead in the eyes and nods. That’s it. No instructions. No information.