There was some thumping and door slamming in the far reaches of the house, and then, apparently, either reconciliation or acceptance of defeat. Ophelia had probably sold the fashion-and-beauty-consultant story to her father. When the noises of acrimony were replaced by the sounds of water gushing through pipes, I took it as a good sign. An even better one was the fact that nobody reappeared in the kitchen.
The doorbell rang at six, and Violet scurried off to answer it. Julian readied the iced champagne bucket and drinks tray. Boyd and I removed the appetizers from the refrigerator, something Julian had thought at the last minute that we would need: deviled eggs topped with halved Greek olives. Marla washed her hands and carefully placed the starters on a platter rimmed with the egg-and-da
