It was late afternoon when she walked into the golden lounge on the second floor of the hotel. She scanned the room and realized that she was probably underdressed, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. She’d been to tea at the Ritz one other time and had left wondering if all the ladies in pearls and boiled wool jackets weren’t paid actors, hired to sit politely nibbling on their sandwiches and straining their tea. Desmond was sitting at a table in the corner, smoothing down the pink tablecloth with his hand. He stood and grinned when he spotted her, but as she was making her way toward him, she saw an expectant look on his face, his eyes a little more wide open than usual, something hopeful in the grin. She’d made a mistake in suggesting this place. Why invite someone to the Ritz unless you had some good news to announce, something to celebrate? Why not meet at any boring coffeehouse unless you were going to report that the station had okayed your proposal and was coming up with the money?

“You’re looking pretty lovely,” he said. He held out a chair for her.

“Too bad. I was hoping I was underdressed.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. You look perfect.”

You could always count on a gay man to flatter you. And when one did, she usually ended up feeling only halfway complimented. The myth about their superior taste made no sense to her, but experience had taught her it was frequently true. You couldn’t discount the praise, but given a moment to think it over, she invariably felt a sputter of disappointment. It was like drinking nonalcoholic beer—tastes like the real thing, but where’s the buzz? He was wearing a tie and a sports jacket, which probably meant he’d called ahead to find out if there was a dress code. He looked handsome in a slightly disheveled way, and she was so grateful for his flattery—or half compliment or whatever—she practically delivered a panegyric on his outfit.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, “but I appreciate it.”

The room was filled with proper Boston ladies, the same cast or identical stand-ins she’d seen here last time, and a few young couples, one nestled together on a love seat feeding each other cookies. Desmond nodded toward a corner where a woman dressed in pale purple was playing a harp. “We should either be much older or in love with each other.”

“Let’s just be voyeurs,” she said. “It always sounds to me as if harpists are playing Debussy. Which is odd because I have no idea what Debussy sounds like.”

“Not like this. Unless I’m mistaken, she’s doing a medley of Rodgers and Hart.”