She wished she could greet Addison with the same enthusiasm and joie de vivre she greeted everyone else with, or she wished she could greet him with the kind of secret, quiet love that her grandmother always reserved for her grandfather (she had bloomed in his presence and wilted in his absence, even after sixty years of marriage). But what Phoebe felt when she saw Addison was concern, weariness, a dash of contempt, a dash of pride, a dash of hope.

How many drinks at home? she wondered.

He bent to kiss Jennifer first, out of courtesy, and then Phoebe. “Looks great,” he said, of the tent, she supposed.

The contempt popped up, like a bottle Phoebe had been trying to hold underwater. “How many drinks have you had?” she whispered.

He smiled at her fondly, but it was an act. He held up one finger and moved into the tent.

One, she thought. Which meant two. Or, more likely, three.

The Chief and Andrea arrived a little while later. To Phoebe’s delight, and her considerable surprise, they looked sensational. Normally when they went out on the town, they wore neutral colors. The Chief often wore a gray suit that he’d bought off the rack at Anderson-Little in 1989. Phoebe teased him mercilessly about that suit, but it didn’t matter—she loved Eddie, bad suit and all. Andrea normally wore boring beige, or black. Tonight, however, Andrea had on a red silk halter dress and red sandals, and Ed wore navy pants, a white shirt, and a blue-and-white seersucker jacket. The Kapenashes might have raided Phoebe and Addison’s own closets, they looked so dashing. Phoebe did a little dance, waving her arms in the air. The champagne was going to her head.

“You look gorgeous!” Phoebe said to Andrea.

Andrea smiled, but Phoebe sensed impatience. She had to tone it down, or she was going to scare them away like two beautiful, exotic birds. “You look gorgeous, too, Eddie. Thank you for coming.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” the Chief said.

“Where did you get the dress?” Phoebe asked Andrea.

“Hepburn.”

“You’re breathtaking.”

“Well,” Andrea said, rolling her eyes.

“I’m honored you’re here,” Phoebe said.

Andrea nodded matter-of-factly, as though to say, You should be. The Chief, however, squeezed Phoebe’s arm and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “The tent looks great. I’m ready for a savannah sidecar. Where’s Addison?”

“In there somewhere,” Phoebe said, waving into the tent. “I have a really big surprise for later, okay? Try to stand near the front when I take the microphone.”

“A surprise?” the Chief said.

“Big one,” Phoebe said.

Andrea smiled again, but Phoebe could see the balloon over her head, and the words in the balloon said, Whoop-dee-do.

At eight o’clock Phoebe and Jennifer left their posts by the door and wandered inside to enjoy the party themselves. The band was playing “In the Mood,” and the first guests had started dancing. Phoebe was offered a devil on horseback. What was it, exactly? A date stuffed with soft white cheese, wrapped in bacon, glazed with brown sugar and Worcestershire.

“Really?” Phoebe said. She had picked it off the catering menu because it had sounded old-fashioned. Phoebe ate it; it was delicious.

She was supposed to make her remarks at eight-thirty, but she didn’t want to speak until everyone had arrived, and Jeffrey and Delilah were still at large—which went to show how backward everything was this summer. Delilah was normally the first one to arrive anywhere, and the last one to leave. She loved “to gather,” whether it was a fancy event like this one or the kids’ holiday sing or a sandwich picnic out at Smith’s Point. Delilah thrived when she was being social, she loved good conversation, she sought gossip, she savored food and drink, she loved music; she always danced, dragging Jeffrey onto the floor against his wishes. She did not like to miss one single second of the action, and if she did, then she had to hear what she’d missed in excruciating detail so she felt like she’d been there.

But not this summer. This summer Delilah stayed home. There was no longer anything worth gossiping about. She ate Pop-Tarts and pizza and drank Diet Dr Pepper like a person who lived in a trailer park. Delilah reminded Phoebe of a doll she had had as a child. This doll—Annabel, her name was—had an off/on switch at the nape of her neck. When the doll was on, she giggled and cooed, she gulped her bottle and let out a healthy belch. When the doll was off, she lay there, blank and mute.

Delilah had been turned off.

At eight-thirty Jeffrey and Delilah still had not arrived. Phoebe, though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t, called the house. Answering machine. Were they on their way? She would wait five more minutes. Ten minutes passed, and Jennifer touched Phoebe’s back.

“You have to speak. People are getting ready to leave.”

“Leave? Already?”

“The early birds. You have to do it now, while you have your audience.”

But Phoebe didn’t have her audience. She needed Jeffrey and Delilah. She checked the entrance to the tent. They wouldn’t skip it, would they? They had bought tickets; Phoebe had spoken to Delilah yesterday morning. Phoebe had said, “I’ll see you tomorrow night?” And Delilah had responded affirmatively: “Tomorrow night.” Were they blowing it off? It would be an infraction from which the friendship would never recover. But Phoebe herself had committed so many infractions.

Just then she saw Jeffrey enter the tent. His face was very brown. It was farmer brown. He wore Nantucket Reds, a white shirt with navy stripes, a double-breasted navy blazer. Jeffrey always looked good. It was Cornell, Phoebe thought. Jeffrey always looked like he was attending an Ivy League garden party.