“Because you’re acting like my father,” she said. She pulled a dress on over her head. Phoebe would have something new for tonight, a thought that was both demoralizing and infuriating. Phoebe had worn a new dress every night of the trip so far. “And don’t forget, I ran away from my father.”

“Meaning what?” Jeffrey said.

“Meaning what do you think?” Delilah said. She foraged through her suitcase for her other black slingback. There was a knock at the door.

It was Tess, fresh-faced and grinning like a Girl Scout.

“Ready?” she said.

Still, they were happy at dinner. Le Cirque was as glamorous a place as Delilah had ever eaten in, and she was relaxed knowing that Addison would take the bill. He ordered two bottles of Cristal. Delilah’s spirits rose. Greg was to her left, Jeffrey to her right, and Andrea on Jeffrey’s other side. Tess was next to Greg, Addison between Tess and Phoebe, the Chief between Phoebe and Andrea. The vacation had them breaking up into small groups, it had them rearranging and forging unusual allies, but when they sat down for a meal together, they always sat like this.

It was curious.

The champagne came and Phoebe, assuming the role of first lady (because Addison was paying for dinner or because she had organized the trip, Delilah wasn’t sure), wanted to make a toast.

“To us,” she said. “The Castaways.”

“The Castaways!” everyone said. Glasses clinked, none crossing! (Phoebe swore it was bad luck.) Delilah sipped her Cristal. She was normally counted on to get the conversation rolling, but tonight she wouldn’t do it. She wasn’t in the mood. No one understood how difficult it was to come up with new, interesting things to talk about with people who had exhausted every topic under the sun. No one gave her any credit for her conversational gymnastics, and she was pretty sure Jeffrey resented it. How many times had she heard it? You talked a lot at dinner. Tonight she would observe all the rules of proper decorum. She would not get bawdy. She would not be the first one to bring up sex, or drinking, or other lewd topics. She pressed her lips shut.

There was a lull at the table. They were waiting for her. What is the greatest song the Rolling Stones ever recorded? I say “Loving Cup.” Andrea, how about you? No, she wouldn’t. Was anyone looking at her? She didn’t care. She didn’t care if they ate their whole meal in awkward silence. She studied her menu.

Out of the blue, the Chief started talking. This was truly amazing, as the Chief normally said very little, in the way that serious men who had important, quasi-confidential jobs said very little. The Chief had apparently bumped into an officer with the LVPD at the roulette wheel. The Chief showed his badge. The other officer was on the vice squad, he said. The Chief and this officer chatted it up for quite a while.

“You would not believe the things he told me,” the Chief said.

“Like what?” Delilah said, forgetting to keep her mouth shut.

The Chief drank from his beer bottle (the waiter had wanted to pour the beer in a glass, but the Chief held his palm up and said, It comes in a glass, in a way that was very Chief-like). He shook his head at Delilah. He wasn’t going to tell them anything else. He was famous for bringing up teasers like that and letting them drop.

Okay, fine, forget it, Delilah wouldn’t push it, though the life of a Las Vegas vice squad officer sounded fascinating if you loved the raw and the raunchy, which Delilah did—and it would be relevant besides. But she’d taken a vow of silence and she meant to stick to it.

Phoebe regaled the table with details of her hours by the pool—Okay, does everyone in this town have fake boobs or what?—and Delilah’s mind wandered. It became clear, now that she had stepped out of her role as the conversational master of ceremonies, how firmly established that role was. They all had their roles, each one of them; they had their personalities, proclivities, interests, likes and dislikes. They were adults, they were known quantities. Was this good or bad? They could not surprise each other. They were not likely to change or act out of character. Like the Chief insisting on drinking his beer from a bottle, even here at Le Cirque, because that was how he drank his beer. Utterly predictable.

But the roles gave them comfort, the lack of surprise lent security, a sense of understanding, friendship, family, acceptance. Right?

The Chief was their spiritual leader. He was their man in case of emergency; he was the best problem solver (though Jeffrey was a damn close second). He was the police chief, he knew everything and he knew it first, but he gave nothing away. The man was a vault. If they ever broke him open, what would they find? A treasure trove of secrets and confidences bound up by his honor. The Chief was principled and discreet. He was part of a fraternity across the country, across the world. Law enforcement. The earth’s finest.

Andrea was the den mother, Mother Earth, Mother Nature. Delilah had always thought it would be boring to be Andrea—she was matronly, sexless, she wore skirts to the knee and one-piece bathing suits, she wore comfortable shoes—but Andrea seemed content. She wasn’t looking for anything, she wasn’t searching for herself, trying on identities or attitudes the way Delilah sometimes did, the way Tess and Phoebe did, too. Andrea had a firm grip on who she was, and this left her plenty of time and energy to focus on others (the Chief, her kids, Tess). When Delilah was sixty or seventy, she wanted to be just like Andrea. She said this once to Jeffrey, and Jeffrey made a face indicating that he found this statement ridiculous or inappropriate. Jeffrey had been in love with Andrea years and years ago; they had dated, kissed, groped, copulated, fallen in love, moved in together. They had talked about marriage and kids. But back then, Jeffrey wasn’t ready. Andrea was the first woman he’d made love to (Jeffrey’s long-time girlfriend in high school and college, Felicity Hammer, was a devout Baptist, determined to remain chaste until her wedding day, and so for six years Jeffrey was dragged along on that virginal ride). But Jeffrey didn’t leave Andrea because he had wild oats to sow; he left her because he had real oats to sow, real corn, real vegetables. He’d inherited a hundred and sixty-two acres of fertile farmland, a legitimate business opportunity, and he wanted to succeed. He could not put the farm first and put Andrea first. They broke up. It was, in his words, very sad.