Win had a great swagger, like he should be wearing a black top hat and tails and twirling a walking stick. Instead he sported a pink-and-green Lilly Pulitzer tie, a blue blazer with some kind of crest on it, and khakis with a crease sharp enough to draw blood. He had loafers, no socks, and basically looked as though he’d just gone yachting on the SS Old Money.

“Suzze T just stopped by,” Myron said.

Win nodded, jaw jutted. “I saw her on the way out.”

“Did she look upset?”

“Didn’t notice,” Win said, taking a seat. Then: “Her breasts were engorged.”

Win.

“She has a problem,” Myron said.

Win leaned back, crossed his legs with his customary coiled ease. “Explain.”

Myron spun his computer monitor so Win could see. An hour ago, Suzze T had done something similar. He thought about those two small words. Harmless enough on their own, but life is about context. And in this context, those two words chilled the room.

Win squinted at the screen and reached into his inside breast pocket. He plucked out a pair of reading glasses. He’d gotten them about a month ago, and though Myron would have said it was impossible, they made Win look even more haughty and stuck-up. They also depressed the hell out of him. Win and he weren’t old-not by a long shot-but to use Win’s golf analogy when he had first unveiled the glasses: “We are officially on the back nine of life.”

“Is this a Facebook page?” Win asked.

“Yes. Suzze said she uses it to promote her tennis academy.”

Win leaned a little closer. “Is that her sonogram?”

“Yes.”

“And how does a sonogram promote her tennis academy?”

“That’s what I asked. She said you need the personal touch. People don’t just want to read self-promotion.”

Win frowned. “So she posts a sonogram of a fetus?” He glanced up. “Does that make sense to you?”