The phone was buzzing when he got back. He picked it up and popped the ring-tab on the soft-drink can.

“Tom,” his brother said.

“Tony. Hi, Tony.”

“You all by yourself?”

“Hell, no,” Tom said. “The party’s just warming up. Can’t you tell?”

“That’s very funny. Are you drinking something?”

“Soda pop, Tony.”

“Because I don’t think you should be sitting there all by yourself. I think that sets a bad pattern. I don’t want you getting sauced again.”

Sauced, Tom thought, amused. His brother was a well-spring of these antique euphemisms. It was Tony who had once described Brigitte Nielsen as “a red-hot tamale.” Barbara had always relished his brother’s bon mots. She used to call it her “visiting Tony yoga”—making conversation with one hand ready to spring up and disguise a grin.

“If I get sauced,” Tom said, “you’ll be the first to know.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. I called in a lot of favors to get you this job. Naturally, that leaves my ass somewhat exposed.”

“Is that why you phoned?”

A pause, a confession: “No. Loreen suggested—well, we both thought—she’s got a chicken ready to come out of the oven and there’s more than enough to go around, so if you haven’t eaten—”

“I’m sorry. I had a big meal down at the coffee shop. But thank you. And thank Loreen for me.”

Tony’s relief was exquisitely obvious. “Sure you don’t want to drop by?” Brief chatter in the background: “Loreen’s done up a blueberry pie.”

“Tell Loreen I’m sorely tempted but I want to make it an early night.”

“Well, whatever. Anyway, I’ll call you next week.”

“Good. Great.”

“Night, Tom.” A pause. Tony added, “And welcome back.”

Tom put down the phone and turned to confront his own reflection, gazing dumbly out of the bureau mirror.