"So we bet those new folks — what's their name?"
"Barnes. Joe and Judy. He's with Lucas and Jones in Stratford, and she teaches at the Fenton School. They seem nice."
"We bet they got themselves a bargain on the Feltons' place."
"More power to 'em, I say. All's fair in love, war, and real estate."
"Don't miss Peggy Ashton's tuna spread, Rob; I'm going for another white wine spritzer."
"Make that two, okay? But no spritz in mine, please. So, Lisa: What were you starting to say about the nametags?"
"Oh, just that looking around at tonight's tags reminded me that friends of ours over in Oyster Cove told us once that nine out of ten husbands in Heron Bay Estates are called by one-syllable first names and their wives by two-syllable ones: You Rob-and-Shirley, we Dave-and-Lisa, et cetera."
"Hey, that's right. I hadn't noticed!"
"And what exactly does one make of that sociocultural infobit, s'il vous plait?"
"I'll let you know, Pete-and-Debbie, soon's I figure it out. Meanwhile…"
"What I notice, guys — every time I'm in the supermarket or Wal-Mart? — is that more and more older and overweight Americans—"
"Like us?"
"Like some of us, anyhow — go prowling down the aisles bent forward like this, with arms and upper body resting on their shopping cart as if it was some kind of a walker…"
"And their fat butts waggling, often in pink warmup pants…"
"Now is that nice to say?"
"It's what Pete calls the American Consumer Crouch. I say 'Whatever floats your boat…'"
"And keeps the economy perking along. Am I right, Joe Barnes?"
"Right you are, Jeff."
"So, Deb, you were saying something earlier about a long letter that Pete got out of the blue from some girl in Uganda?"
"Oh, right, wow: that…"
"Uganda?"
"I should let Pete tell you about it. Where are you and Paul doing your entrée?"
"Practically next door. At the Beckers'?"
"Us too. So he'll explain it there. Very touching — but who knows whether it's for real or a scam? Oh, hey, Pat: Have you and Tom met the Barneses? Joe and Judy Barnes, Tom and Patsy Hardison from Loblolly Court."
"Jeff Pitt introduced us already, Deb. Hello again, Barneses."
"Hi there. We've been hearing great things about your Toga Party last fall! Sounds cool!"
"All but the ending, huh? We can't imagine what happened with Dick and Susan Felton that night…"
"Has to've been some kind of freak accident; let's don't spoil this party with that one. Welcome to Rockfish Reach!"
"Joe and I love it already. And your place on Loblolly Court is just incredible!"
"Jeff pointed it out to us when we first toured the neighborhood. Really magnificent!"
"Thanks for saying so. An eyesore, some folks think, but it's what we wanted, so we built it. You're the new boss at Lucas and Jones, in town?"
"I am — and my boss, over in Baltimore, is the guy who stepped on lots of folks' toes with that teardown over in Spartina Pointe. Maybe you know him: Mark Matthews?"
"Oh, we know Mark, all right. A man after my own heart."
"Mine too, Tom. Decide what you want, go for it, and let the chips fall where they may."
"Well, now, people: Excuse me for butting in, but to us lonely left-wing-Democrat dentist types, that sounds a lot like our current president and his gang."
"Whoa-ho, Doctor David! Let's not go there, okay? This is Lisa Bergman's husband Dave, guys. He pulls teeth for a living."
"And steps on toes for fun. Pleased to meet you, folks."
"Entrée time in twenty minutes, everybody! Grab yourselves another sip and nibble, check your tags for your sit-down-dinner address, and we'll all reconvene for dessert with the Greens at nine!"
"So, that Barnes couple: Are they golfers, d'you know?"
2. Entrée
The assembled now disperse from the Simpsons' to shift their automobiles or stroll on foot to their various main-course addresses, their four host-couples having left a bit earlier to confirm that all is ready and to be in place to greet their guests. Of these latter, four will dine with George and Carol Walsh on Shoreside Drive; six (including the newcomer Barneses) with Jeff and Marsha Pitt, also on Shoreside; eight (the Ashtons, Bergmans, Greens, and Simpsons) with Pete and Debbie's Cattail Court near-neighbors Charles and Sandy Becker; and ten with Tom and Patsy Hardison over on Loblolly Court. Stratford Catering's entrée menu for the evening is simple but well prepared: a caesar salad with optional anchovies, followed by Maryland crabcakes with garlic mashed potatoes and a steamed broccoli-zucchini mix, the vegetables cooked in advance and reheated, the crabcakes prepared in advance but griddled on-site, three minutes on each side, and the whole accompanied by mineral water and one's choice of pinot grigio or iced tea.
The Becker group all go on foot, chatting together as they pass under the streetlights in the mild evening air, their destination being just two houses down from the Simpsons' on the opposite side of the cul-de-sac "court." To no one in particular, Shirley Green remarks, "Somebody was wondering earlier whether the Barneses got a bargain price on the Feltons' house? None of our business, but I can't help wondering whether the Beckers' house number affects their property value."
"Aiyi," Peggy Ashton exclaims in mock dismay. "Nine-Eleven Cattail Court! I hadn't thought of that!"
If he were Chuck Becker, Rob Green declares to the group, he'd use that unfortunate coincidence to appeal their property-tax assessment. "I mean, hell, Dick and Susan Felton were just two people, rest their souls. Whereas, what was it, three thousand and some died on Nine-Eleven? That ought to count for something."
His wife punches his shoulder. "Rob, I swear!"
Walking backward to face the group, he turns up his palms: "Can't help it, folks. We accountants try to take everything into account."
Hisses and groans. Peter Simpson takes his wife's hand as they approach their destination. He's relieved that the Barneses, although certainly pleasant-seeming people, won't be at table with them for the sit-down dinner to distress Debbie further with innocent talk of their college-age daughters.
The Beckers' house, while no palazzo like the Hardisons, is an imposing two-story white-brick colonial, it's columned central portico flanked by a guest wing on one side and a garage wing on the other, with two large doors for cars and a smaller one for golf cart and bicycles. The eight guests make their way up the softly lighted entrance drive to the brightly lit main entry to be greeted by ruddy-hefty, bald-pated, silver-fringed Charles Becker, a politically conservative septuagenarian with the self-assured forcefulness of the CEO he once was, and his no-longer-sandy-haired Sandy, less vigorous of aspect after last year's successful surgery for a "growth" on her left lung, but still active in the Neighborhood Association, her Episcopal church in Stratford, and the Heron Bay Club. Once all have been welcomed and seated in the Beckers' high-ceilinged dining room, the drinks poured, and the salad served, their host taps his water glass with a table knife for attention and says, "Let's take hands and bow our heads for the blessing, please."