When they were finished, Siobhan stopped to look at the invitations. They were set up on one of the gaming tables, a box of invitations, response cards, envelopes, a dish of water, a tiny sponge, and a roll of stamps at each place. Siobhan lifted one of the invitations carefully from the box; it was as heavy and creamy as a wedding invitation. Siobhan felt her ire rise up. The amount of money spent on these invitations (how many were there—two thousand?) was enough to pay for day care for one of “Nantucket’s Children” for a year.

“Lovely,” Siobhan said.

“Mmmmm,” Isabelle murmured. She sipped her wine, then picked up a sheet of vellum printed with names and waggled it in the air. “These are the committee members,” she said. “I notice your name is on here.”

“Is it?” Siobhan said. She checked the vellum—Mrs. Carter Crispin—and gave a little laugh. “Well, I told Claire I’d help out, but I haven’t done very much.”

“No,” Isabelle said. “Half the people on the list are people I recruited, and most of them don’t even speak to me. They won’t help, won’t lift a finger, they might not even attend—but because they agreed to serve on the committee, they will send a check. And they lend their name to our event. But they’re ghosts.”

“Ghosts,” Siobhan said, eyeing the vellum.

“I know it drives Claire mad, having people on the committee who aren’t willing to roll up their sleeves, but that’s the way the game is played.”

There were footsteps—and a woman entered the sunporch, lugging a large instrument trapped in a black body bag.

“I’m playing in here?” the woman said to Isabelle.

“Dara! Hello! Yes, over there, in the corner, I think, don’t you?” Isabelle turned to Siobhan. “This is Siobhan, the caterer. Siobhan, this is Dara, the cellist.”

“A cellist!” Claire said. She had been inside for fifteen seconds, just enough time to take a glass of champagne from Siobhan’s tray and catch strains of cello music floating in from the other room. “She hired a cellist?”

“Flew her in from New York. She plays with the symphony.”

“No!” Claire said, but Siobhan didn’t answer. It was her rule, strictly enforced, not to fraternize with guests of any event, and that included Claire.

“Let’s go out after?” Siobhan whispered in an attempt to end the chitchat.

Claire said, “I can’t.”

Siobhan gave her a scowl, which Claire did not see, because at that moment Lock Dixon walked in. He smiled warmly at Siobhan.

“Hello, Siobhan.”

“Hello, Lock. Champagne?”

Claire was smiling, too, and drinking her champagne, and fidgeting with the straps of her sundress. Isabelle swooped in from God knows where.

“Lock!”

They kissed on the lips as Siobhan and Claire watched. There they were, Siobhan thought—the cook, the thief, his wife, her lover. Or something like that.

Lock said, “Do I hear music?”

Isabelle said, “Dara is here! I know how you love the cello!”

Claire turned to Siobhan. Siobhan looked into the koi pond, which babbled happily at their feet. Gavin Andrews walked in—stiff and smarmy as ever—followed by Edward Melior. Siobhan ground her molars together. Three thousand dollars was not enough compensation to deal with Edward. If she had thought for one instant that he would be here, she would never have taken the job. It seemed amazing to her that she had ever, ever kissed him, hugged him, rubbed his feet, chewed his ear, ruffled his hair, slept with him, declared her love for him, agreed to marry him. She flashed back to the instant that she had flung his engagement ring at him, screaming, It’s over, Edward! His face had screwed up in pain. That memory she found satisfying.

But because caterers were, among other things, actors, she smiled. “Champagne? Gavin? Edward?”

Gavin took a glass with a sniff. Edward took a glass, then reached out, grabbed Siobhan’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, and kissed her flush on the mouth. Siobhan would have slapped him had she not strictly enforced the “No hitting guests at any event” rule.

“Hello, beautiful,” Edward said.

She would have stabbed him in the gut with a serving fork. Regrettably, the taste of him lingered on her lips—gin, he had been to a party before this—and she didn’t have a hand free to wipe it away. Even worse, Siobhan felt a pulse between her legs. The kiss had aroused her. Impossible! She abhorred the man. Involuntarily, she thought of pressing him up against Isabelle’s Sub-Zero refrigerator. She thought about making him so hot that he begged for her. He had kissed her with authority, with ownership. How dare he! She hated his self-assurance. The tray of champagne wobbled in Siobhan’s hands, and for a second she pictured it toppling into the koi pond. Damn Edward! She had not dropped or spilled anything in more than two years. Edward approached Isabelle and shook her hand. Siobhan stole a glance at him, at his shirt, neatly tailored across his shoulders, at the bulge of his wallet in the back pocket of his khakis.

They drank a lot. Only six people, and Siobhan could not keep the glasses full. And, too, she was busy making sure the food was perfect. She warmed the fried chicken and softened the honey-pecan butter she had made to go on top of the chicken; she fried the corn fritters, last minute, on Isabelle’s Viking range and brought them out piping hot. She offered the fritters to Edward first, and he popped one in his mouth and burned his tongue.