Smoothing my hands over my cuffs, I tug them down, once each wrist, then meet her eyes again. “I forgive you, by the way.”

She smiles, but it’s more like baring teeth. “How generous. Or you could forgive Jean-Claude, who barged through the mudroom door without knocking, like a one-man elephant stampede.”

“Seeing as he’s a man, he’d be a one-man man stampede.”

She blinks at me, clearly annoyed. “Let’s go. I can’t take this anymore.”

“Hey, you two!” Margo says warmly as Bea and I walk into the foyer together. “What a lovely sight.” She gives a signal to Juliet, who smiles and lifts her champagne glass. “Come on. Jules is about to give a toast; then it’s time to play!”

“Play?” I ask weakly.

Beatrice leans in and says, “It’s this thing people do sometimes, James. To have this thing called . . . ‘fun.’ ”

She can’t know how on target that barb is. Like an arrow meeting a bull’s-eye, the word lands in my chest with a sickly thud.

Fun.

Fun is hard to have when you have lifelong anxiety, when new places and people make your throat close and your chest tighten, when everywhere you go, you’re told you carry a family name and its reputation on your shoulders, that there’ll be hell to pay if you fail it.

My anxiety is better managed now than it was when I was a child, but the accusation hits a tender old bruise, scrapes open a wound that’s never quite healed.

I have no witty response to her barb about my stodginess, no stinging riposte. Beatrice seems surprised by that, her brow furrowing as I glance away and stare longingly at the cocktail in Margo’s hand. God, do I want another drink, but with Beatrice nearby, is it worth the risk of wearing it?

“West.” Making my decision for me, Christopher offers me a glass, a copy of the one I had earlier. His mask sits up off of his face, nestled in his dark hair, and I take that as silent permission to do the same with mine.

I’m eager for a nice swig of my drink, before I think better of it. First, I discreetly put another solid foot between me and Beatrice. “Thank you,” I tell him.

Christopher nods. “It’s the least I could do after startling Bea. She turned you into a Pollock painting of Margo’s jungle juice.”

“I’m here, remember?” she snaps.

He tweaks her hair affectionately. “How could I forget?” Then he lifts his glass and clinks it with mine. “Sorry again.”

“Not at all,” I tell him. “Cheers.”

We both take long drinks.

Beatrice glares at me. “So you can’t be bothered to drink the bubbles I offer, but you’ll take Christopher’s manly bourbon drink.”