Beau finally figured out why adults drank alcohol at cocktail parties: it gave them something to do with their hands aside from stuff them in their jacket pockets—something he understood from the disapproving glare Vin’s grandmother gave him was a fashion faux pas. Smoking seemed somehow out of the question, too. He really could not figure out what to do with his hands.
The sport coat, at least, looked nice. Beau kept catching glimpses of his reflection—what was it with all the mirrors and reflective surfaces?—and being perplexed before he remembered that he was actually dressed up. He grumbled and tried to find someplace to look where his own image wasn’t reflected back at him four hundred times. Californians—or maybe it was just the extremely wealthy—were very, very vain.
The jazz conc
