In New Jersey, a day at the park or down the shore meant a blanket, sunscreen, some sandwiches, beer and soda, and money for ice cream. Angie found the scene in front of her hardly credible, a carnival sprung out of the mist, State Fair meets Brigadoon. She was actually relieved to see a half dozen small enclaves of teenagers who were making it their business to stand out. Markus talked to many of them in passing, including one group of Goths who must certainly die of heat prostration before the day was out.

Angie caught sight of a kid at least six and a half feet tall with Day-Glo yellow hair; Alice Cooper eye makeup; studs in his nose, lip, ears, and eyebrows; and a black T-shirt with stark white lettering: I’m the Shit That Happens.

Markus took his job seriously, pointing out details that were often funny, whether he meant them to be or not. “The Parkhams have had that spot for fifty years or more,” he said. “Same with the Ogilvies, over there, and the Roses and the Walkers. Over there by the band shell, that’s Deacon Beasley and his whole clan. The Assembly of God families all set up closer to the river and Four Square Gospel way over there. The Four Square ladies and the Assembly of God ladies don’t see eye to eye. There was a falling-out over tomato chutney back in the seventies, and they haven’t got along since.”

A man in an Uncle Sam costume walked by on stilts, his cotton beard fluttering in the breeze. A line of children ran along behind him like the tail on a kite. There were strolling vendors selling balloons and lemonade and miniature flags.

“Wait,” Tony said. “Is that a couch?”

Markus grinned. “Folks are going to be here all day, they want it comfortable.” That seemed an understatement to Angie, looking over a sea of sun umbrellas. One family had set up what looked like the pavilion of an Arabian prince under a striped awning.

“The Lawsons,” said Markus. “That’s Weezie Lawson there, I expect you’ve met her.”

“Vice president of the Junior League,” Rivera said.

“At the very least,” said Markus. “What the Ogilvies don’t own, the Lawsons do. You saw Weezie’s oldest boy, Chris, back there.” He jerked his chin back in the direction of the teenagers.

Tony laughed. “‘I’m the Shit That Happens’ is a Lawson. I like it.”

Markus led them toward an open area under a canopy of live oaks. Louie came shooting out from under a table, his whole rear end wagging frantically, to launch himself at Markus. The boy caught him neatly and tucked the dog under his arm like a rolled newspaper.

“We set up for you right next to the Braggs. I hope that’s okay.”