“See how I save us money? A lot of brides buy exorbitantly priced shoes. Instead it’s these old Havaianas for me, and I’m taking them off the moment we hit the yard.” Joey grabbed Grant’s hand, and with her other one dug for the evil eye charm inside the right pocket of her seventies-esque emerald-green silk jumpsuit.

“For richer and for barefoot.” Grant broke their handclasp to drape his arm over her shoulder.

“To love and to frolic in your parents’ grass.”

“Get a room,” said Lily.

They wove around the property, Lily trailing behind them. They passed the tennis court and the library loggia. They brushed by the life-size stone chess set that Joey suspected had never been played in its multiple decades of existence. They cut through the garden whose centerpiece was the majestic fountain with tiles sourced in Morocco. And at last they landed on the upper lawn of the mansion belonging to the illustrious Dot and Lawrence Newman—the Atlantic Ocean a sapphire stretch beyond. Waiters in white tails traced figure eights among tables overflowing with pink peonies. An eight-piece band played Adele beside the pool bordered in jasmine-blanketed trelliswork.

When Joey had first visited Newman Manor, Dot had delivered a ten-minute explanation about the pool’s limestone coping. Joey hadn’t known what limestone coping was, let alone that ten minutes could be expended discussing it. But she’d found Grant’s floral-adorned, design buff of a mother endearing. Dot could go on endlessly about such subjects as the blanket in the guest room that once belonged to a Navajo chief and the ottoman upholstered in Lee Jofa chintz that was on back order for four years. Waiting for that, my dear—that’s the definition of stamina.

“Emergency!” shouted a figure in hot pink darting toward Joey. It was Dot.

Joey said to Grant, “Palm Beach is literally the only place on the planet where a gathering of Jews involves more pink than black.”

She and Dot did the triple cheek kiss. Dot had a Swiss ancestor, Grant once explained.

“You look beautiful, darling. Not bridal, but I know. You’re alternative. Now I have the emergency calligrapher here.” Dot gestured to a woman in a skintight black tuxedo pantsuit. “Grant only gave me a few hours’ warning about the new guests. A…” Dot consulted a Smythson notebook. “Mr. Rand and Mr. Leo?”

“Ah, yes.” As if on cue, Joey watched Lily scan the lawn. Her little sister wore an ethereal champagne slip dress, her hair in loose pigtails, the combination of which gave her a rare delicate vibe.