“I think so,” said Claire.
“If I drink too much,” Carmela said, “don’t bother to carry me home.”
“No, we won’t, dear. You stay right here and check out our good tax dollars. Da?”
“They’re so damn operatic looking,” Zinnie complained. “Oh, hell, Carmela, what are you doing putting on gloves?”
At that moment, Stefan spotted Claire. Silkily, he glided across the tilted lawn. “Don’t tell me!” he stretched out his dinner-jacketted arm, “—not one policelady, but two!”
“Wadja, tell ’im I’m a cop?” Zinnie glared at Claire.
“No, this one is a writer. This is Carmela and this is Zinnie. I hope you don’t mind my bringing the whole family.”
“Mind?” Of course Stefan didn’t mind. Three beautiful sisters were an asset to any party, weren’t they? They all agreed they were. Stefan guided them over to the canopy and settled them each with a glass of champagne.
“He looks like a sun-bleached Count Dracula,” Zinnie whispered in her ear.
Carmela fluttered her eyelashes at Stefan. “One thing that women forget nowadays to do,” Claire remembered reading in one of Carmela’s articles, “is flutter their lashes.”
“I’ve always been dying to see the inside of this house,” Carmela was telling Stefan. “Can you believe that I’ve lived practically around the corner most of my life and I’ve never been inside! Do you collect anyone in particular?” She steered him away.
Claire felt the wine whiz right to her head. “Count Dracula seems to have found his bat.”
“Oh, he’ll be back,” Zinnie poked her between the shoulder blades. “Men like that want a little hard to get. You don’t think he doesn’t have women throwing themselves at him all day long? Anyway, who cares? He’s no big deal. Debonair. Tall. Witty. Rich. I’m so glad Freddy’s not here. He’d fall in love with him.”
“Stop worrying about Freddy. He’d want you to have some fun.”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
“All the more reason, then.”
“Jesus. Catch that old broad. Are those chandeliers or earrings? Everybody’s so rich!”
“And boring, I bet.”
“Yeah, well. You can’t have everything.” Zinnie looked about her apprehensively … eagerly. As though she’d found herself out on the tip of the high board and wasn’t so sure which course to take. She is so pure, thought Claire. No longer innocent, but pure.
There was a band of musicians in tuxedos circuiting the lawn. Claire finished her drink and when the waiter passed she took another.
“Look at this,” Zinnie sniggered in her ear, “a croquet mallet.”
Sure enough, there were half hoops and mallets sprawled across the lawn on the other side of the house.
“What bliss,” said Claire. “Bygone fragments of a more gentle era.”
Zinnie pirouetted across the grass and picked up a mallet. She swung it crazily around her head. “Game?”
“C’mon, Zinnie,” Claire looked around uncomfortably. “Cut it out.”
“Why? Don’t you want to play? You’ve been talking about getting some exercise. Let’s see a little action here.” She kicked off her shoes and held the splintered mallet in a batter’s stance. “Look. There’s a ball.”
“I can’t take you anywhere,” Claire griped jokingly. But she meant it. You never knew what Zinnie would do. She got so desperate and arbitrary sometimes. “I forget how to play,” she grinned unhappily.
Zinnie proceeded to line up the hoops. “This can be home base,” she dropped her curly blond head and nudged it at the first stepping stone. It was bordered in chamomile.
“You can’t use a slate for base,” said Claire. “And croquet has no base. I think.”
“What happened to the little champagne man? There he is. Yoo-hoo!”
“Zinnie! Stop it!”
“Why?”
“Everybody’s looking.”
“So? Let them see someone having a laugh, for once.” She swung her mallet. The ball traveled through several hoops and landed, perfectly round, at Claire’s long toes.
“Nice shot. Only aren’t we supposed to each have our own balls?” There was no sense in arguing. It would just make Zinnie worse.
“That’s the spirit!”
“Mademoiselle!” A Nigerian fellow in tails who’d been watching, ambled over with another ball. He presented it to Zinnie as one would a precious gift.
“Oh, hello,” she said. “Want to play?”
“Volontiers.”
“What’s he say?” Zinnie frowned.
“He’d love to. What’s your name?”
“René.”
“Okay, René, you’ve got second base.” She dragged him over to a far-off hoop.
“You’re a sick girl, Zinnie. This is croquet.”
“Queens rules. You can’t beat baseball. Or do you think you can?” Chips of green in her blue-flecked eyes lit up with challenge.