nametags on a table in the foyer, just beyond which her husband would show them the way to the refreshments. "Passwords, please? Loud and clear for all to hear!"
"
De gustibus non est disputandum!
" Sue duly proclaimed, hoping her hosts wouldn't take that proverb as any sort of criticism. Dick followed with "
Ad infinitum!
"—adding, in a lower voice to Sam, who waved them in, "or
ad nauseam,
whatever. Cool outfit there, Sam."
"The Decline and Fall of the You Know What," their friend explained, and kissed Sue's cheeks. "Aren't
you
the femme fatale tonight, excuse my French. Ethel would've loved that getup."
"I can't
believe
she's not in the next room!" Sue said, hugging him. "Sipping champagne and nibbling hors d'oeuvres!"
"Same here," the old fellow admitted, his voice weakening, until he turned his head aside, stroked his thin white beard, and cleared his throat. "But she couldn't make it tonight, alas. So
carpe diem,
guys."
Although they weren't certain of the Latin, it's general sense was clear enough. They patted his shoulder, moved on to the nametag table on one side of the marble-floored, high-ceilinged entry hall, found and applied their elegantly lettered and alphabetically ordered stick-on labels, and were greeted at the main living room step-down by their host, a buff and hearty-looking chap in his late fifties or early sixties wearing a red-maned silver helmet, a Caesars Palace T-shirt from Las Vegas, a metallic gladiator skirt over knee-length white Bermuda shorts, and leather sandals even higher-laced than his wife's on his dark-haired, well-muscled legs. With an exaggeratedly elaborate kiss of Susan's hand and a vise-hard squeeze of Dick's, "
Dick and Susan
Felton!
" he announced to the room beyond and below, having scanned their name stickers. "Welcome to our humble abode!"
"Some humble," Dick said, his tone clearly Impressed, and Sue added, "It's
magnificent!
"
As indeed it was: the enormous, lofty-ceilinged living room (What must it cost to heat that space in the winter months? Dick wondered), it's great sliding glass doors open to a large, roofed and screened terrace ("Lanai," Susan would later correct him), beyond which a yet larger pool/patio area extended, tastefully landscaped and floodlit, toward the tidal covelet where the Hardisons' trawler yacht was docked. A suitably toga'd pianist tinkled away at the grand piano in one corner of the multi-couched and -cocktail-tabled room; out on the lanai a laureled bartender filled glasses while a minitoga'd, similarly wreathed young woman moved among the guests with platters of hors d'oeuvres.
"Great neighborhood, too," Dick added, drawing Sue down the step so that their host could greet the next arrivals. "We know you'll like living here."
With a measured affability, "Oh, well," Tom Hardison responded. "Pat and I don't actually
live
here, but we do enjoy cruising over from Annapolis on weekends and holidays. Y'all go grab yourselves a drink now, and we'll chat some more later, before the fun starts, okay?"
"Aye-aye,
sir,
" Dick murmured to Susan as they dutifully moved on. "Quite a little weekend hideaway!"
She too was more or less rolling her eyes. "But they seem like a friendly enough couple. I wonder where the money comes from."
From their husband-and-wife law firm over in the state capital, one of their costumed neighbors informed them as they waited together at the bar: Hardison & Hardison, very in with the governor and other influential Annapolitans. What was more, they had just taken on their son, Tom Junior, as a full partner, and his younger sister, just out of law school, as a junior partner: sort of a family 4-H Club. And had the Feltons seen the name of that boat of theirs?
"Not yet."
"Stroll out and take a look." To the bartender: "Scotch on the rocks for me, please."
Susan: "White wine spritzer?" And Dick: "I'll have a glass of red."
The barman smiled apologetically. "No reds, I'm afraid. On account of the carpets?" And shrugged:
"
De gustibus non est disputandum!
" Sue duly proclaimed, hoping her hosts wouldn't take that proverb as any sort of criticism. Dick followed with "
Ad infinitum!
"—adding, in a lower voice to Sam, who waved them in, "or
ad nauseam,
whatever. Cool outfit there, Sam."
"The Decline and Fall of the You Know What," their friend explained, and kissed Sue's cheeks. "Aren't
you
the femme fatale tonight, excuse my French. Ethel would've loved that getup."
"I can't
believe
she's not in the next room!" Sue said, hugging him. "Sipping champagne and nibbling hors d'oeuvres!"
"Same here," the old fellow admitted, his voice weakening, until he turned his head aside, stroked his thin white beard, and cleared his throat. "But she couldn't make it tonight, alas. So
carpe diem,
guys."
Although they weren't certain of the Latin, it's general sense was clear enough. They patted his shoulder, moved on to the nametag table on one side of the marble-floored, high-ceilinged entry hall, found and applied their elegantly lettered and alphabetically ordered stick-on labels, and were greeted at the main living room step-down by their host, a buff and hearty-looking chap in his late fifties or early sixties wearing a red-maned silver helmet, a Caesars Palace T-shirt from Las Vegas, a metallic gladiator skirt over knee-length white Bermuda shorts, and leather sandals even higher-laced than his wife's on his dark-haired, well-muscled legs. With an exaggeratedly elaborate kiss of Susan's hand and a vise-hard squeeze of Dick's, "
Dick and Susan
Felton!
" he announced to the room beyond and below, having scanned their name stickers. "Welcome to our humble abode!"
"Some humble," Dick said, his tone clearly Impressed, and Sue added, "It's
magnificent!
"
As indeed it was: the enormous, lofty-ceilinged living room (What must it cost to heat that space in the winter months? Dick wondered), it's great sliding glass doors open to a large, roofed and screened terrace ("Lanai," Susan would later correct him), beyond which a yet larger pool/patio area extended, tastefully landscaped and floodlit, toward the tidal covelet where the Hardisons' trawler yacht was docked. A suitably toga'd pianist tinkled away at the grand piano in one corner of the multi-couched and -cocktail-tabled room; out on the lanai a laureled bartender filled glasses while a minitoga'd, similarly wreathed young woman moved among the guests with platters of hors d'oeuvres.
"Great neighborhood, too," Dick added, drawing Sue down the step so that their host could greet the next arrivals. "We know you'll like living here."
With a measured affability, "Oh, well," Tom Hardison responded. "Pat and I don't actually
live
here, but we do enjoy cruising over from Annapolis on weekends and holidays. Y'all go grab yourselves a drink now, and we'll chat some more later, before the fun starts, okay?"
"Aye-aye,
sir,
" Dick murmured to Susan as they dutifully moved on. "Quite a little weekend hideaway!"
She too was more or less rolling her eyes. "But they seem like a friendly enough couple. I wonder where the money comes from."
From their husband-and-wife law firm over in the state capital, one of their costumed neighbors informed them as they waited together at the bar: Hardison & Hardison, very in with the governor and other influential Annapolitans. What was more, they had just taken on their son, Tom Junior, as a full partner, and his younger sister, just out of law school, as a junior partner: sort of a family 4-H Club. And had the Feltons seen the name of that boat of theirs?
"Not yet."
"Stroll out and take a look." To the bartender: "Scotch on the rocks for me, please."
Susan: "White wine spritzer?" And Dick: "I'll have a glass of red."
The barman smiled apologetically. "No reds, I'm afraid. On account of the carpets?" And shrugged:
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