Nantucket was an authentic place, a place largely unchanged since 1845, with its cobblestone streets, whaling captains’ homes with widow’s walks and cedar shingles, leaded transom windows, back staircases with rope banisters, brick fireplaces with cooking pots hanging from iron hooks. The storefronts, the churches, the banks, the Pacific Club at the bottom of Main Street, were all as they had been a hundred and fifty years ago.

Vegas was a studied mimic, it was three miles of trompe l’oeil. It mocked the rest of the world—Paris, New York, Venice. It tried to out-authenticate the authentic. What did Addison say as they strolled through the Aladdin? This place looks more like Morocco than Morocco itself.

All the clichés about Vegas were true, and they loved it!

They stayed at Caesars Palace, in the newly renovated tower. They had four rooms in a row on the nineteenth floor. The Kapenash room and the MacAvoy room connected—and Delilah and Phoebe joked that this was because Tess might wake up in the middle of the night and want her mommy. They had all been happy then, but there were still jokes and pokes shared sotto voce. This was the nature of the beast, the nature of women. The four women were two couples: Andrea and Tess, Phoebe and Delilah. Andrea and Tess were a couple because they were first cousins. Andrea had been a nine-year-old girl sitting on a front stoop in Dorchester the day Tess was brought home from the hospital in her baby bunting. Andrea owned Tess; she constantly lapsed into conversations that Delilah and Phoebe couldn’t follow—about Sister Maria José, or Aunt Agropina, or Crazy Richard from Harborview Avenue and his plot of marijuana out back amid the basil and spring onions. Delilah and Phoebe had had no choice but to buddy up themselves, to prick their fingers, mingle their blood, exchange vows—best friends forever—although both of them, deep down, wanted to get close to Tess. Wanted to be her favorite. Well, you know, her favorite after Andrea.

They had all been happy then. The Chief and Andrea had kids in elementary school, left behind with Mrs. Parks, the retired dispatcher from the police department. No one else had kids, though Delilah and Jeffrey were talking about it—or, put more accurately, Jeffrey was talking about it and Delilah was avoiding talking about it. Tess and Greg were thinking about it, too; they may even have been trying. They disappeared to their room when they thought no one would notice. Addison had a daughter, who lived with his first wife. Phoebe had no desire to get pregnant. She was into her “business”—she still consulted for Elderhostel and other tour groups for the active aged—and she was into her body.

In Las Vegas, Phoebe jogged along the Strip each morning, all the way down to the Stratosphere and back; she worked out in the gym, she tanned by the pool, she had a bikini wax and a facial and a hot stone massage. She dragged the rest of the girls to Ferragamo and Elie Tahari and Prada and Armani and Gucci and Ralph Lauren. Phoebe was a size 2 and Addison made millions of dollars—why wouldn’t she go shopping? Andrea tired of it first; she would stand in the concourse and call Mrs. Parks from her cell phone to check on the kids. Delilah and Tess hung in there a little longer. Tess could fit in things, but she had no money (teacher’s salary, she moaned). Phoebe offered to buy her whatever she wanted, but they had a rule among the group about no gifts. It was a good rule, Delilah decided, especially since she sensed Phoebe trying to buy Tess’s love. That wasn’t exactly a fair assessment, because Phoebe offered to buy things for Delilah, too, but Delilah had full breasts and a curvy ass that Versace didn’t design for. Eventually Delilah and Tess started going for gelato while Phoebe shopped and Andrea phoned, and when they reunited, they were happy. Tess and Delilah shared their gelato, Phoebe showed off what she had bought, Andrea gave them the lowdown on the kids.

They were happy in different configurations. Jeffrey wanted to see the Hoover Dam. So he and Delilah rented a burgundy Ford Mustang convertible and asked who else wanted to go. Phoebe was a no, and Addison decided to stay with Phoebe. Tess was a no, and Andrea decided to stay with Tess. Greg wanted to go and so did the Chief. The Chief drove because he was the Chief, and Jeffrey sat up front because he had rented the car. Delilah and Greg sat in the back, taking in the sun and the wind and the desert.

The dam was astounding, mind-blowing, 726 feet of concrete holding back a biblical amount of water. Delilah stood in genuine awe. She had gone along because her husband was keen on it and because she couldn’t take any more shopping or smoke or signage, and as they descended down the middle of the dam with a tour guide, she congratulated herself on her fine decision. What if she had missed this?

As they waited for the elevator that would take them back up to the top of the Dam, Greg whispered in Delilah’s ear, “I should have brought a joint.”

Delilah giggled, less out of amusement than out of a sense of conspiracy, because she and Greg were the only two of the group who smoked dope, much to the dismay of their respective spouses.

Jeffrey looked at Delilah sharply—the tour guide was in the middle of a discourse on the WPA—and Delilah felt bonded to Greg even more. They were the bad teenagers disrupting class. Hadn’t it always been that way when Delilah was growing up? She had led boys astray or she had let them lead her astray; she was always pushing the envelope, forever getting into trouble.

They stopped for a late lunch at a roadhouse on the way back to Vegas, and Delilah and Greg polished off three Coronas apiece and started telling stories about the sexual mishaps of their younger years. They laughed like fools, spurting beer all over the table, while the Chief looked on with mild indulgence (sex wasn’t against the law, after all) and Jeffrey glowered.