not
his
house rule.
"Mm-
hm.
" The living room wall-to-wall, they now noted, was a gray so light as to be almost white. Poor choice for a carpet color, in Sue's opinion—and for that matter, what color
wouldn't
be stained by a spilled merlot or cabernet? But
de gustibus, de gustibus.
"So make it gin and tonic, then," Dick supposed.
"
Ars longa!
" a late-arriving guest called from the hallway.
Sam Bailey, behind them, asked the bartender for the same, predicted that that new arrival was George Newett, from the College, and called back "
Vita brevis est!
" His own
vita
without Ethel, however, he added to the Feltons, had gotten
longa
than he wanted it to be. Raising his glass in salute, "Fuck life. But here we are, I guess.
E pluribus unum.
Shall we join Trimalchio's Feast?"
The allusion escaped them, but to make room for other thirsters they moved away from the bar, drinks in hand, toward the groups of guests chatting at the hors d'oeuvres tables at the lanai's other end, and out on the pool deck, and in what Susan now dubbed the Great Room. As Sam had foretold, once the admission ritual was done, the affair settled into an agreeable Heron Bay neighborhood cocktail party, lavish by the standards of Rock-fish Reach and Oyster Cove if perhaps not by those of Spartina Pointe, and enlivened by the guests' comments on one another's costumes, which ranged from the more or less aggressively non-compliant (the bearded fellow identified by Doc Sam as "George Newett from the College" wore a camouflage hunting jacket over blue jeans, polo shirt, and Adidas walking shoes; his wife an African dashiki), to the meant-to-be-humorous, like Tom Hardison's casino T-shirt and Dick Felton's caftan-cum-machete, to the formally elaborate, like Patricia Hardison's and some others' store-bought togas or gladiator outfits. Although not, by their own acknowledgment, particularly "people" people, husband and wife found it a pleasant change from their customary routines to chat in that handsome setting with their neighbors and other acquaintances and to meet acquaintances of those acquaintances; to refresh their drinks and nibble at canapés as they asked and were asked about one another's health, their former or current careers, their grown children's whereabouts and professions, their impression of "houses like this" in "neighborhoods like ours," their opinion of the Bush administration's war in Iraq (careful stepping here, unless one didn't mind treading on toes), and their guesses on whether Chesapeake Bay, in places still recovering from the surge floods of Tropical Storm Isabel two years past, might yet be hurricaned in the current hyperactive season.
"Just heard that Rita's blowing the bejesus out of Gulfport and Biloxi. I swear."
"Anybody want to bet they'll use up the alphabet this year and have to start over? Hurricane Aaron? Tropical Storm Bibi?"
"As in B. B. King?"
"C. C. Ryder? Dee Dee Myers?"
"Who's that?"
"E. E. Cummings?"
"Who's
that?
"
"I can't get over those poor bastards in New Orleans: Why didn't they get the hell out instead of hanging around and looting stores?"
"Did you hear the one about Bush's reply when a reporter asked his opinion of
Roe versus Wade?
'I don't care how they get out of New Orleans,' says W, 'as long as it doesn't cost the government money.'"
'"
George Newett,
is it? At my age, I wish
everybody
wore nametags."
"On their foreheads. Even our grandkids."
"
Love
that headband, by the way, Pat. Right out of
Antony and Cleopatra!
"
"Why, thanks, Susan. Tom's orders are that if some joker says I've got my head up my
asp,
I should tell them to kiss it. Now is that nice?"
"Some cool djellaba you've got there, Dick."
"Caftan, actually. Some cool yacht you've got out there! Is that your RV too, the big shiny guy parked down by your dock?"
It was, Tom Hardison readily acknowledged. In simple truth, he and Pat enjoyed
owning
things. Owning and doing! "What the hell, you only get one go-round."
George
his
house rule.
"Mm-
hm.
" The living room wall-to-wall, they now noted, was a gray so light as to be almost white. Poor choice for a carpet color, in Sue's opinion—and for that matter, what color
wouldn't
be stained by a spilled merlot or cabernet? But
de gustibus, de gustibus.
"So make it gin and tonic, then," Dick supposed.
"
Ars longa!
" a late-arriving guest called from the hallway.
Sam Bailey, behind them, asked the bartender for the same, predicted that that new arrival was George Newett, from the College, and called back "
Vita brevis est!
" His own
vita
without Ethel, however, he added to the Feltons, had gotten
longa
than he wanted it to be. Raising his glass in salute, "Fuck life. But here we are, I guess.
E pluribus unum.
Shall we join Trimalchio's Feast?"
The allusion escaped them, but to make room for other thirsters they moved away from the bar, drinks in hand, toward the groups of guests chatting at the hors d'oeuvres tables at the lanai's other end, and out on the pool deck, and in what Susan now dubbed the Great Room. As Sam had foretold, once the admission ritual was done, the affair settled into an agreeable Heron Bay neighborhood cocktail party, lavish by the standards of Rock-fish Reach and Oyster Cove if perhaps not by those of Spartina Pointe, and enlivened by the guests' comments on one another's costumes, which ranged from the more or less aggressively non-compliant (the bearded fellow identified by Doc Sam as "George Newett from the College" wore a camouflage hunting jacket over blue jeans, polo shirt, and Adidas walking shoes; his wife an African dashiki), to the meant-to-be-humorous, like Tom Hardison's casino T-shirt and Dick Felton's caftan-cum-machete, to the formally elaborate, like Patricia Hardison's and some others' store-bought togas or gladiator outfits. Although not, by their own acknowledgment, particularly "people" people, husband and wife found it a pleasant change from their customary routines to chat in that handsome setting with their neighbors and other acquaintances and to meet acquaintances of those acquaintances; to refresh their drinks and nibble at canapés as they asked and were asked about one another's health, their former or current careers, their grown children's whereabouts and professions, their impression of "houses like this" in "neighborhoods like ours," their opinion of the Bush administration's war in Iraq (careful stepping here, unless one didn't mind treading on toes), and their guesses on whether Chesapeake Bay, in places still recovering from the surge floods of Tropical Storm Isabel two years past, might yet be hurricaned in the current hyperactive season.
"Just heard that Rita's blowing the bejesus out of Gulfport and Biloxi. I swear."
"Anybody want to bet they'll use up the alphabet this year and have to start over? Hurricane Aaron? Tropical Storm Bibi?"
"As in B. B. King?"
"C. C. Ryder? Dee Dee Myers?"
"Who's that?"
"E. E. Cummings?"
"Who's
that?
"
"I can't get over those poor bastards in New Orleans: Why didn't they get the hell out instead of hanging around and looting stores?"
"Did you hear the one about Bush's reply when a reporter asked his opinion of
Roe versus Wade?
'I don't care how they get out of New Orleans,' says W, 'as long as it doesn't cost the government money.'"
'"
George Newett,
is it? At my age, I wish
everybody
wore nametags."
"On their foreheads. Even our grandkids."
"
Love
that headband, by the way, Pat. Right out of
Antony and Cleopatra!
"
"Why, thanks, Susan. Tom's orders are that if some joker says I've got my head up my
asp,
I should tell them to kiss it. Now is that nice?"
"Some cool djellaba you've got there, Dick."
"Caftan, actually. Some cool yacht you've got out there! Is that your RV too, the big shiny guy parked down by your dock?"
It was, Tom Hardison readily acknowledged. In simple truth, he and Pat enjoyed
owning
things. Owning and doing! "What the hell, you only get one go-round."
George
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