Pretty soon she was going to have to hoist herself up from this mountain of pillows and get ready for the party. Out of respect for Jane and Desmond, she’d make an effort with her clothes. It was a cloudy spring night with the promise of showers. There was a faint whiff of floral sweetness in the air, even in Manhattan. She’d wear heels and maybe a black dress she’d bought the other day. It was much too short for someone over forty, but that was part of its appeal. She didn’t dance, eat, speak, or write gracefully, so why should she attempt to age gracefully? Her goal was to get more offensively outrageous with each passing year.

When she got to the party, she’d plant herself in a poorly lit spot in the room, and applaud Jane and Desmond heartily. They deserved it. They’d raised the dead. Poor Charlie. She’d tried to raise him from the dead, but all she’d done was raise a few hundred grand. And now, the final indignity: after six and a half years, his death barely stung her at all. There were days when she had only the most fleeting thoughts of him, and other days when she actually believed it might be nice to have the love and companionship of another human being. Fortunately, there weren’t many of those latter days. She was happy with the cat and the occasional bottle of Chianti.

She closed her eyes and settled back on the pillows. If she fell asleep and woke up at dawn, having missed the champagne and small talk, she wouldn’t exactly drown in regret. Given her current problems with sleep, that didn’t seem likely. It was time to face the music, time to dig out her party clothes and her public persona.

2.

Rosemary took one last glance around the room, set her empty glass on a windowsill, and began to slither through the crowd as unobtrusively as she could. It was nearly midnight, long past her bedtime, and the party was just beginning to get its second wind. She’d been holding up her corner of the overdecorated living room for two hours, and now, at last, it was time to go home.