She was up next to him and put her cheek against his, kissing the air – friends. 'I was on the phone, Mark. The caterers. They're going to be a half hour late.'

'Again? We ought to quit using them.'

She patted at his arm. 'Oh, stop. They're great people and they make great food. You're just jittery about the party.'

She turned on the tap at the sink and filled a glass. He took a slow sip of his beer, controlling himself. She was having water. 'You're right,' he said. 'It's nerves, I guess. You want to have a drink with me?'

She shook her head. 'You go ahead. I'll sit with you.'

'Are you going to drink tonight at the party?'

Challenging, she looked up at him. 'If I want to, Mark. It's all right if I don't drink, you know.'

'I didn't say it wasn't.'

'Yes, you did.'

He tipped his beer bottle up, emptying it, then placed it carefully on the drain. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'You're right. I'm uptight. I'll go take a shower.'

Sheila was sitting at her dressing table in the makeup room behind the bedroom, wearing only her slip, her legs crossed, putting the finishing touches on her face. Outside, night pressed a gloomy and oppressive hand to the window. The lights in the room flickered as wind and driving rain rattled the panes. In the bedroom, Dooher had dropped a cufflink onto his dresser three times. More rattling.

Sheila stopped with her blush brush and glanced over. 'Are you all right, Mark? Do you feel okay?'

He got the cufflink in, turned it so it would hold, looked up. 'I'm fine. It's nothing, maybe the weather.'

Sheila went back to the mirror. 'It'll be all right,' she said. 'Don't worry. Everyone will fit inside. It might even make it more fun.'