Kip said, “I don’t see this business with Greg and Shelly as anything new. Kids have always been rebellious at that age, haven’t they?”

Patrick shook his head. “Not like this.”

“Shelly’s a beatnik,” Deborah said. “She told me she lived for months in a crash pad in North Beach, where all the ‘cool cats’ hung out.”

“A beatnik? That’s passé, isn’t it?”

“Not to hear her tell it. She claims she screwed Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti in the same six-day period.”

Annabelle looked askance. “She actually told you?”

“Oh, sure. Proud as Punch. I could see she was hoping I’d recoil in horror so she could accuse me of being uptight and out of it. I just sat there and blinked and then asked if she’d ever had the clap.”

Annabelle cracked up. “What’d she say?”

“She said that wasn’t the point. She was experiencing life to the fullest, which was more than I could say.”

Patrick said, “I hadn’t heard that bit. Where was Shawn all this time while she was getting it on?”

“They were all there together—kids, moms, strangers, potheads, and heroin addicts. They played guitars and bongo drums and made money writing poems they sold to tourists on the streets.”

Patrick finished his drink and signaled the waitress for another. Kip raised his hand as well, like two guys bidding on the same lot at an art auction.

Patrick shook his head in exasperation. “What’s wrong with these kids? You give them the best of everything and they end up spitting in your face. This girl knows it all. You should hear her mouth off. She doesn’t have a brain in her head and she’s got the gall to criticize the president of the United States, like she has a clue. She can’t even run her own life. They’re vegetarians, for god’s sake. Do you know how much time and energy that takes?”

Annabelle said, “More than I’d be willing to expend. I guess you have to give her credit. I couldn’t manage it.”

“Oh, please. You think Shelly cooks? No, ma’am. She refuses to subordinate herself. Deborah’s the one saddled with all the meals. You ask me, it’s just one more form of narcissism, making everybody jump to their tune while they sit there thinking they’re above it all.”

Annabelle said, “That’s ridiculous. Why don’t you make them fix their own meals?”

“My point exactly. Ask her,” he said, hooking a thumb in Deborah’s direction.

“You know what she eats, Patrick. If it were up to her, every meal would be soy cakes, sprouts, and brown rice. Shawn would starve to death if I didn’t give him peanut butter sandwiches behind her back. You should see him wolf down his food. He’s like a little animal.”

The waitress set down two fresh drinks along with a basket of Parker House rolls and a plate of individual butter pats. Kip turned to Annabelle. “Sorry, I should have asked. You want another martini or you want to switch to wine?”