Siobhan clucked. “Careful. They’re hot.”

No question about her role: she was the hired help. This never bothered her; she had a strong work ethic and almost no pride of the deadly-sin variety. She liked to listen, to eavesdrop; she did it all the time on the job. Even when serving her best friend and her ex-fiancé, she was invisible, a fly on the wall. She, like Dara the cellist, was very pleasant background music.

First she watched Claire. Claire’s cheeks were flushed; she drank quickly, she chinged her fork against her plate more than once, and she fussed with the napkin in her lap as if it was a bird she was trying to calm. She was sitting next to Lock. This was the first time Siobhan had seen them together, side by side, and it was revelatory. Siobhan knew the truth—she was the only one—but it was like looking at the optical illusion of the old lady and the young lady. At first your eyes saw only the old lady, but then, when someone pointed it out—aha! Yes! The beautiful young lady! How could I not have seen it earlier? It’s so obvious! Lock and Claire were turned toward each other, they spoke addressing each other; under the table, Siobhan noticed from behind, their legs were touching, though just barely. It was happening under everyone’s nose.

Siobhan was also acutely aware of Edward. He was drinking heavily, more gin, splash of tonic, a quarter lime—she knew how he liked it—and he was being funny and charming as always, but he was punctuating his stories with long, penetrating looks at Siobhan that seemed to rise and swell with the strains of the cello. Siobhan caught him looking once, and he did not look away. They were stuck there, hooked together. His look was saying . . . well, what else would it say? I want you! And Siobhan’s look was, hopefully, both enticing and defiant. You can’t have me!

Isabelle’s voice sliced into Siobhan’s thoughts. “Claire, have you bought your table yet?”

There was a weighty pause. Isabelle asked the question loudly, at the exact time that Dara finished a movement, so that the room was suddenly silent and the question took on the import of an announcement or a challenge to be risen to.

Claire’s answer was meek. “Not yet.”

“But you will take a table, right? Twenty-five thousand dollars? That way you’ll be up front, next to me. And Lock!”

Everyone looked uncomfortable except for Gavin, who merely looked interested. Take a twenty-five-thousand-dollar table? Siobhan thought. That was absurd. Well, not for Isabelle, and not for Lock—not for Edward, maybe—but for Claire, yes. Twenty-five thousand dollars was a new car. It was a year’s worth of mortgage payments. It was not something Claire would—or could—toss away in one night. Isabelle, Siobhan decided, was an evil woman for asking Claire in front of everyone. Look at poor Claire—her cheeks were burning, and now the red splotches were popping out on her chest. Siobhan was in the process of offering the table more pickles. She had not dropped or spilled anything in more than two years, but what if the pickles were to end up in Isabelle’s lap right now?

Adams Fiske said, “Everybody donates what they’re comfortable with. No one expects Claire to buy a twenty-five-thousand-dollar table.”

“Why not?” Isabelle said. “She’s chairing the event, as am I, and I’m taking a twenty-five-thousand-dollar table. It’s expected that we lead by example.”

Lock took a breath as though he were about to speak, and Siobhan thought, Yes, stick up for your girlfriend! Prove to me you love her! But Edward, who honestly could not keep his wallet in his pants for one second, said, “I’m in for a twenty-five-thousand-dollar table.”

Claire raised her face. She had been staring at the lonely deviled egg on her plate. “Me, too,” she said.

“Claire?” Adams said.

Claire? Siobhan thought. Are you out of your mind?

“What?” Claire said. “I am the cochair. Isabelle is right—it sets an example. And I’ve put money aside.”

She was lying; her gaze was fixed back on Mr. Egg. Siobhan whisked Claire’s plate away and nudged her discreetly. Claire looked up. Siobhan shook her head. You don’t have to play these people’s games. It was like she was always telling Carter: Anteing up money you don’t have doesn’t make you ballsy. It makes you stupid.

Lock jiggled the ice in his glass and said, “That’s great, everybody. Thank you. It’s great for the cause.”

They moved to the next table and got going on the invitations. It was dark now. Siobhan brought out dessert and coffee and cordials; Dara the cellist packed up and went out front to wait for her cab. Siobhan cleaned up in the kitchen. This was normally her favorite part of the evening—wrapping up leftovers for the boys, getting ready to go home. But tonight, right now, Siobhan was rattling around, distracted, upset. It was so many things: Claire, Lock, Edward, Carter and his gambling, Isabelle. Siobhan decided that from now on she was only going to take jobs from nice people, good people. She would not work for Isabelle French again.

There was a glass of champagne remaining on the silver tray, no longer chilled, but who cared? Siobhan drank it down. She felt better then—lighter, less serious. Claire’s problems were not her problems. They were such good friends that it seemed this way sometimes—but no.

Siobhan felt hands on her waist and then a warm mouth on the back of her neck. She was well-trained in self-defense, and instinct nearly had her elbowing Edward in the sternum. She refrained, however, and managed just enough twitch to shrug him off.