“Is it a Catholic novel?” Eddie asked.

“No,” Hope said. “Father Declan is a priest, Dad, but he’s also a person. Not everything he does has to be ‘Catholic.’”

“I know,” Eddie said. He dug into his foie gras. He loved foie gras, but Grace wouldn’t let him order it. She didn’t approve of the way they force-fed the geese. As a raiser of chickens, she was offended by any type of fowl abuse. But Grace wasn’t here now; she was at a garden party.

“I wonder if Mom is having fun at her garden party,” he said.

Hope said, “Don’t you think it’s weird that she took Benton as her date?”

“She took who?”

“Benton Coe? The gardening guy?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Eddie said. “She told me, but I forgot.”

“Don’t you think it’s weird?” Hope said.

Did Eddie think it was weird? Well, it made him a little edgy, maybe, that Grace had dolled herself up into such a knockout for an evening with the gardener. But, although Benton was as big and tall as a Hun, Eddie didn’t find him particularly threatening. He was a man who dealt with roses and tulips. Eddie didn’t think he was gay, but he was definitely emotionally attuned toward the feminine—and this was exactly what Grace needed. She needed someone to talk to about her garden. Grace felt about the garden the way Barbie felt about privacy and the way Putin felt about Russian supremacy. Eddie had never been particularly passionate about anything except making money and running. But the running had been more of a God-given natural talent, which wasn’t quite the same thing.

“No, I don’t think it’s weird,” Eddie said. “Benton is the gardener, and they went to a garden-club event. Maybe I’m crazy, but that makes perfect sense to me. He can teach your mother the names of all the flowers.”

“Mom already knows the names of the flowers,” Hope said.

“Exactly,” Eddie said. He finished the luscious lusciousness that was his foie gras, and then he waved over the waiter to pour his wine. Then a ghastly thought crossed his mind: maybe Grace had heard the rumor about Eddie and Madeline and had orchestrated this “date” with Benton Coe in order to get back at him? But no—if Grace had heard the rumor, Eddie would have had a knife to his balls immediately. He didn’t want to think about Grace and Benton Coe, and he sure as hell didn’t want to think about the rumor about him and Madeline. He just wanted to enjoy dinner with his daughter; it had been so long since he’d been out.

Hope was finishing up her molten-chocolate lava cake, and Eddie was paying the bill—the lamb chops had cost forty-six dollars! How had he not noticed that before he ordered them?—when the chief of police approached the table.

“Eddie!” the Chief said.

Eddie jumped out of his chair. “Chief, how are you?” The two men shook hands, and Eddie presented Hope. “My daughter Hope. Hope, you know Chief Kapenash?”

Hope smiled shyly, whereas Eddie knew Allegra would have been up out of her chair, shaking his hand, eager to impress. But Eddie would not compare.

“You’re having a father-daughter dinner?” the Chief asked.

“We are,” Eddie said. How fortuitous that the Chief could witness this moment of excellent parenting. He was not by himself and not with Madeline or any other woman. He was with his daughter. It was the best P.R. Eddie could have asked for—and it was happening organically. “Her mother and sister are out, so we’re taking advantage.”

“Nice,” the Chief said. “I’m just about to sit down and have a romantic dinner with my wife. Good to see you, Eddie.”

“Good to see you, Chief,” Eddie said. He remained standing until the Chief wandered away. The piano player launched into “Some Enchanted Evening.” Eddie beamed at Hope.

She said, “Okay, I’m finished. Can we go?”

“We can go,” Eddie said. He ushered Hope in front of him and walked out of the restaurant, indiscriminately waving to everyone he saw.

HOPE

A phone call came to the house in the middle of the night. Hope rolled over. She felt sick to her stomach; the food at the Summer House had been rich, and when Eddie had gotten up to go to the men’s room, Hope had sneaked a sip of his martini, just to find out what it tasted like.

It had tasted like lemon-flavored lighter fluid. Hope nearly spat it out, but she didn’t want to call attention to herself, and so she swallowed it.

Alcohol was disgusting.

The ringing of the phone stopped. Hope’s stomach gurgled. She really hoped she didn’t puke; she tried not to think about the martini. It had been so clear and innocuous looking that Hope had thought it would taste like water.

Suddenly, she heard her parents’ voices in the hallway. Her mother was hitting what Hope thought of as her hysterical register. She heard them open the door to Allegra’s bedroom, which elicited more hysteria from Grace. So Allegra was still out. Hope checked her phone. It was ten after three.

Wow, Hope thought. Their curfew was eleven thirty. Allegra had shattered her previous broken curfew record of one forty-five.

Grace started to cry, and Eddie was trying to comfort her, but he started sounding a little shaky himself, and suddenly Hope wondered if maybe there was something really wrong—like maybe Allegra was hurt.

Or…?

Hope made it to her trash can in the nick of time. Oh God, she thought. The damned martini, never again, and never again clam chowder or Caesar salad, which was too bad, because they were her favorites, but, ugh, ick, vomiting ruined everything. She heaved and spat, and then, trembling, she collapsed on her bed until she had a rush of that thank-God-I-got-it-out feeling. Then she managed to stand and open her door.