Allison made a plosive sound, which she hoped sounded like the laugh of a mother who could appreciate not wanting kids to have weapons, even toy ones. She held fast to her fragile ego as Suzanne told the story of her entrepreneurial life, starting with Pop!, a flavored popcorn business that she’d nearly sold for a tremendous profit, but then the cupcake craze came along, and sales dried up. She’d invested what money was left into Sweet Dreams, a line of custom-made beds so famous and ubiquitous that Jillian had one—the Harriet the Spy bed, which had hidden drawers that opened with a secret code, and came with extra spy notebooks and a recipe for tomato sandwiches.

Grant rattled off a list of the beds—the Wright Brothers’ plane bed that came with flying goggles and a flight notebook, the princess canopy bed with its jeweled-crown headboard and matching tiara, the pink teapot-shaped Alice in Wonderland bed, the queen-size cruise ship bed with lifeboats for the kids, the crib that looked like a Victorian birdcage. “We were headed toward early retirement till Nighty Night Beds came along and teamed up with Target. The legal fees just about ate us up.”

Allison felt her face burn. The idea that Suzanne would look up to her! She hadn’t actually said aloud, “Your time will come,” had she? She sat back and waited for the inevitable question, And what do you do, Allison?

“Suzanne likes setting up businesses, getting them running, and setting them free,” Grant said. “Once she learns to set them free a little sooner, we’ll be golden.”

There was a whomp under the table. Grant’s eyes bulged as he leaned over and grabbed his shin.

Allison waited for Suzanne to apologize—who kicked their husband?—but she started talking about marketing without missing a beat. Allison smiled. She was right. Grant deserved it.

Sinatra was singing “My Way” in the Coxes’ backyard. Kaye’s face was nestled against Nick’s chest as they danced, his hand on her ass in its grass skirt. Allison stood. “How about an after-dinner drink. Does anyone want an after-dinner drink?” She never had an after-dinner drink. Did they even own any after-dinner drinks?

Grant started singing along. His voice was smooth and rich, unexpected.

Suzanne shook her head at Grant, eyes wide, a silent but plaintive plea to stop.

“No singing at the table,” Ted joked. Only Allison could tell it wasn’t a joke.

“Wow,” Allison said, sitting again. “You don’t happen to act, too, do you?”

Grant rattled off the theatrical roles he’d played as if he’d been waiting for the chance to roll out his résumé: Sid in The Pajama Game, Sky in Guys and Dolls, Curly in Oklahoma! He got a dreamy look in his eye. “Chicks and ducks,” he sang. He winked and held out his arm, gesturing to an imaginary surrey with a fringe on top.