Nora smiled as she lifted her face so he could kiss her cheek. “Nan’s idea. She read a biography that suggested he stole the melodic line from a piano duet by Weber. There was also this whole big brouhaha about whether the scherzo should precede or follow the andante. I know it sounds tedious, but it was fun knowing what went on behind the scenes.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I did. Very much so. Sissy and Jess were there, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to either one of them. What about you? How was your evening?”

“I changed my mind about going. When it came right down to it, I wasn’t in the mood.”

“Really? You seemed so set on being there.”

“I had a hard day at work and I couldn’t bear the idea of getting into a tux. On the way home, I stopped at Tony’s and picked up an order of ribs.”

“Bad boy. If I’d known you were going to play hooky, I’d have made a point of joining you. What happened to your table for ten?”

“I guess there were two empty seats instead of one.”

She smiled. “Oh, well. The money went for a good cause so I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“We have something on for tonight?”

“Dinner with the Hellers at Nine Palms.”

“What time?”

“Six thirty for drinks. Dinner reservation’s at seven, but Mitchell said he’d seat us whenever we were ready.”

“Good. Sounds like fun.”

Nora took the teakettle from the stove and carried it to the sink, filling it from the filtered-water tap. “Did you notice all my formal wear was gone?”

She could see the caution rise in him. “I just got here.”

“Not here. Malibu.”

He opened a piece of mail and glanced at the contents. “Went right by me,” he said. “What’s the story?”

“I had Mrs. Stumbo drive down Wednesday and bring everything back. I would have called to tell you, but I’d talked to you once and I didn’t want to bother you again.”

“You’re not a bother when you call.”

“Thank you. That’s sweet, but I don’t like being a pest when it’s not important. At any rate, when I realized I wouldn’t be coming down last week, I asked her to take care of it. She dropped the whole carload at the cleaners so at least that’s out of the way.”

“I don’t understand. Did I miss something here?”

“Spring cleaning. A closet purge. I’ve had some of those gowns for years, and half of them don’t fit. I’ll keep the best ones, and any I don’t want I’ll donate to the Fashion Institute.”

She put the kettle on the stove and turned on the burner. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I’m fine. What if an occasion comes up?”

“I guess I’ll just have to go shopping. You know what a chore that is,” she said, smiling.

“Might require a trip to New York,” he said, matching her tone.

“Exactly.”

Dinner at the club was pleasant. The place had an old-fashioned fusty air about it, like the home of a rich maiden aunt. The once grand furniture was upholstered in a peach brocade that had seen better days. The couches and chairs were arranged in conversational groupings. Some of the cushions were lumpy and the arms were frayed in places, but an upgrade would require a membership assessment, which would set off endless disagreements and endless complaints. The club was largely given over to couples in their seventies and eighties, whose homes had appreciated in value while their retirement income had dwindled, subject to the whims of the economy. The so-called younger members were in their fifties and sixties, better off financially perhaps but destined for the same fate. Old friends would start dropping off one by one and in the end, they’d be grateful to spend an evening with the few tottering acquaintances who were left.

Robert and Gretchen were their usual ten minutes late. The delay was so consistent, she wondered why they couldn’t manage to be on time. The four of them hadn’t seen one another since the Christmas holidays, so they caught up over drinks. Their relationship was amicable but superficial. All four were ardent Republicans, which meant any talk of politics was quickly addressed as they were all in agreement. Nora had met the Hellers in Los Angeles shortly before she and Channing were married. Robert was a plastic surgeon who’d been felled by a heart attack ten years earlier. He was fifty-two at the time, and from that point on had cut his practice back to two days a week. Gretchen was his first and only wife, also in her early sixties, but with the years artfully erased. She had big green eyes, white-blond hair, and flawless skin. Her boobs were fake, but not conspicuously so.