plank floor bare of rugs. A huge seascape, framed in what looked like bleached driftwood, hung over a white brick fireplace that was filled with a rainbow assortment of candles. Their citronella smell evoked summer evenings on a patio. The ukulele players had staked out that corner. One had a sandaled foot propped on a green Adirondack chair as he strummed and sang in a sweet tenor voice. I wasn’t the only one taking pictures. Several other people had their phones aimed at the group, too.
Dwight and I edged our way through animated clusters of guests and eventually found our hostess and two men lounging amid colorful soft cushions in an old-fashioned white wicker porch swing suspended from ceiling hooks. She was barefooted and wore a necklace of bright plastic flowers, a black bikini, and a soft pink terry beach jacket that swung open to reveal a well-toned body. A pink hibiscus was tangled in her long blonde hair. As soon as she saw us, she jumped up with happy little cries.
“I didn’t realize it was a beach party,” I said, feeling more than a little overdressed.
She laughed. “And I didn’t think you’d come if I asked you to wear a bathing suit in January. This is my To Hell With Winter party.” She pulled one of the men to his feet beside her. “And this is Cam. Cameron Broughton. Now tell me your names so we can start figuring out if you’re kin to each other.”
“Don’t be tiresome, Luna,” the man said.
He appeared to be about thirty. Black hair curled around his ears and halfway down his neck. He wore baggy red-plaid shorts, red flip-flops, a green tank top, and blue swim goggles around his neck. Gold wire-rimmed glasses with round lenses of pale blue made him seem young and vulnerable despite the light age lines around his eyes. I always notice eyes and there was something slightly familiar about his, but I couldn’t quite place him.
Dwight and I introduced ourselves.
“Sorry, Luna,” he said. “No Bryants or Knotts in my family tree.”
“And no Broughtons in mine,” said Dwight.
“Mine either,” I said. “Are you related to the Raleigh Broughtons?”
“Not that I know of,” he said, looking down into his empty glass. “All of my people come from Wilmington.”
Before we could pursue it, he excused himself and melted into the crowd. Luna accepted the wine we’d brought and escorted us to the bar, where she left us in the hands of a hired bartender while she went to see what was holding up the caterers and the hors d’oeuvres.
Neither Dwight nor I have ever had trouble talking to strangers, and soon he was in a deep discussion with two bearded men about brewing one’s own beer, while I found myself discussing Madeleine Albright’s pins with two white-haired women, old-line feminists who, after all this time, were still disappointed that Hillary Clinton had wound up as secretary of state instead of president. “I mean, I like the man we got, but damn it all, this was probably our best chance to see a woman president before we die.”
“Speak for yourself, Celia,” said the older of the two. “I’m good for another three election cycles.”
“And you never know but what a woman may head up the other ticket,” I said.
“Oh please!” she exclaimed.
A waiter in a starched white jacket and red-striped bathing trunks offered a tray of shrimp and pineapple chunks on skewers. I took one and moved on, overhearing snatches of conversation I would never hear back in Colleton County.
“—almost landed the role of the roommate in that new ABC sitcom.”
“Forget about getting an eight o’clock reservation before April.”
“He’ll be curating the show at the Arnheim but—”
“—looked all over the Biennale for you. Where the hell did you go?”
“—three bedrooms and still rent-controlled!”
“When she was on
“—paid three million and will be lucky to get a million-five unless—”
Our fellow guests were an eclectic assortment of old and young and most appeared to be connected to the arts. Although Dwight and I were not the only ones wearing seasonally appropriate wool and fleece, most were dressed as if this were indeed a beach house in the middle of summer.
A girl who turned out to be in the chorus of
Another tray passed by loaded with colorful fruit. I put a toothpick into a cube of melon that was at its peak of sweetness.
By 10:30, the spacious apartment was so crowded that I had lost sight of Dwight altogether. I had also lost count of how many glasses of wine I’d plucked from various passing trays when I found myself shoved into a trio of art enthusiasts who were trashing a new exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. I apologized for the bump, but one of the men gave me a friendly smile and moved over so I could join them. Late forties, he was tall and angular and wore hiking shoes, pipestem jeans, and a gray tweed jacket over a blue sweatshirt that advertised Yamaha motorcycles.
Before we could introduce ourselves, his eyes lit up and his smile broadened for someone behind me. “Sigrid? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hello, Elliott. I could ask you the same thing. Actually I’m looking for—”
I turned and there was a tall thin woman, perhaps three or four years older than me, with soft dark curls and wide eyes that were an unusual smoky gray. She smiled as she took in my red cowl-neck sweater. “Judge Bryant?”
“Knott,” I said, holding out my hand. “Deborah Knott. And you must be Sigrid Harald.”
