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“He’ll make you play sharks.”

She laughed again, and this time it stayed a little longer.

From outside, Bitsy called, “Lorrie? I want to see the earrings you’re wearing tonight.”

She looked at the table, picked up the second earring, then set it down. Her hands were steadier now.

“Do you still want me at the dinner?” I asked.

She looked at me, and I wished I could read her as easily as I’d once thought I could.

“Yes,” she said.

“As what?”

The question sounded childish after I said it, but there it was, sitting between us.

“As Paul,” she said.

I nodded. “I can manage that.”

She reached for her lipstick, looked into the little mirror on the wall above the sink, and made a face at herself. “I look awful.”

“You don’t.”

“I’ve cried off half my mascara.” She looked at me and made a face. “The rest of it, along with most of my makeup is on your shirt.”

“I have another shirt in the car.”

Her face softened. “You’re always prepared.”

I stepped back toward the door. “I’m going to change.”

“Paul.”

I turned.

Her eyes were still red as she touched my hand.

“Thank you,” she said.

I wanted to apologize again. I wanted, absurdly, to ask if she wanted me to carry her to the car so her high heels wouldn’t sink into the grass.

Instead, I said, “You’re welcome.”

I changed my shirt in the outdoor shower then sat in one of the chairs by the pool and waited, the ring box heavy in my pocket.

22

Lorrie

Friday — August 24, 1984

By the time we arrived at the club, my mother had already told me twice not to touch my hair, my father had cleared his throat seven times, and Paul had looked at me when he thought I wasn’t looking.

The Rabbit stayed home because my mother had declared it “inappropriate for tonight,” which was impressive, considering no one had been able to agree on what tonight was anymore.

So we arrived in my father’s Volvo, all three of us tucked inside with the air-conditioning blasting, my mother’s perfume and mine filling the interior.