The Croft residence was a flurry of diaper changes, phone calls, and hasty breakfasts. Shelia refused to acknowledge that her baby was well past the need for diapers and that in the fall she would be attending school. William, surrendering after several futile arguments, was pleading on the phone with Mary, their babysitter, to come over for one more day.

"I don't know why she'd object," Shelia said, spooning food into her daughter's mouth with a goo, goo accompaniment. "She gets paid very well."

"Maybe it's because she can get paid the same for looking after five-year-olds that don't need feeding and changing every five minutes." He grabbed his jacket from the chair and headed for the door. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Shelia reeled inside at the slight, watching him go, automatically taking the spoon from Candy's able hand, and continuing to feed her.

*****

Nigel awoke with a feeling of resignation. Already his day was doomed to a schedule decided by the coming evening's events. After leaving the McCorkidale's with the growing sense that, something more pervasive than Patty's condition, was hovering over the other couples, Susan had driven him home and departed quickly after a mere peck on the cheek; her attention taken solely with the Jubilee details.

Following his usual routine, he showered, shaved, dressed, and went downstairs to breakfast. Victoria was at her familiar post by the stove fitting bacon slices onto a plate already filled with fried egg.

"Here you go," she said, when he appeared in the atrium.

"You always manage to have my meals ready at the right, split second," he said, taking the plate and sitting at the table. "Do you have a periscope or a hidden camera somewhere?"

"You're a creature of habit, nephew, I could set my clock by your routines." She waddled into the room with her own plate and a basket of toast.

He grunted, selecting a piece of toast and giving her a wry look. "I rather picture you creeping up the stairs and spying on me."

"I imagine you do, given that somewhat paranoid version of your adventure last night."

"You had to be there, I guess. The weird part was that Felicity seemed more upset with Galleria being in the bathroom with Patty, than she was about being alone with Peter, in his house."

Victoria nibbled her toast thoughtfully. "Your Peyton Place analogy seems to be gaining some credence."

"God I hope not, I'll soon have to carry a program to keep all the players straight."

"Speaking of players, how is your conquest of the lovely Susan coming?"

"Susan is not a conquest," he said huffily.

She dunked her toast into her egg and stirred the yoke. "My goodness! Has Nigel Stainway let real feelings inside his virtuous defences?" His pointed discounting of her comment brought a rewarding smile to her face.

******

Main Street looked like carnival time. The huge, ornate street lamps had changed from their normal amber glow to a bright red, which bathed the gathering crowds in a burgundy wash. Parents and children alike, all holding the thin stick on which the black and red, comedy and tragedy masks were fastened, laughed with strangers in the crowd with peek-a-boo, now you see me, now you don't, greetings.

Black and red streamers adorning the fronts of businesses up and down the blocks began to look like tattered laundry as children pulled at them for sport. Ashton Hills' finest, all five uniformed officers, were busily patrolling the road on foot, patiently ordering people back on the sidewalks in preparation for the parade. Two huge speakers mounted on the front of Osborne's Department Store blared a medley of show tunes, none of which had ever played in Ashton Hills, and represented an era that preceded most of the celebrants.

The parking lot behind Antonio's Funeral Lounge was a sea of seventies kitch; big hair, plastic boots, short skirts, an eclectic range of accessories, polyester, loud shirts and gold chains, all milling about in a swirl of gaudy colours. Susan, in a bright yellow tube top, and red vinyl mini skirt, was tripping from wagon to wagon in a pair of red vinyl, platform boots, waving her list and herding groups of dignitaries like a Border Collie.

The horses, receiving their final decorations of rosettes and ribbons, stood placidly in their traces, listening with bored expressions to their owner/drivers.

Ellen and Denise appeared as Twiggy knock-offs in matching hair bows, shoe bows, green dresses, showing bare, polished knees, and bright pink lipstick, as they went from wagon to wagon, checking the decorations. Tiffany stood out in a very short, silver dress with large purple buttons, thick-soled sandals that matched her candyfloss hair in colour, and purple lipstick.

She minced her way to Allen's wagon, eager to see what Gavin was wearing, and stopped so quickly, she nearly toppled over. Gavin, looking every bit the model, in thigh-high, white leather boots and a tight black, toy skirt that neglected to cover the tip of her red and white, polka dot knickers, was giving Allen apoplexy as he handed her up into the wagon.

The loose, green silk blouse moved suggestively over, what even Tiffany had to concede, was an excessively, décolleté neckline. She tottered closer, mouth ajar, marvelling at the long blonde hair that hung in a golden cloud about her shoulders. Allen scrambled into the wagon like an escaping convict, diving for the corner seat opposite, his gold chains swinging dangerously about his neck.

Tiffany leaned against the side of the wagon and offered a huge smile; this was definitely going to be the end of Allen. "Galleria... what can I say! You look fantastic, darling."

Gavin drew in one shoulder and parted his lips slightly as he'd seen the models do in TV commercials, and fluttered a delicate hand.

"And Allen, look at you! Mr. Disco."

"Still fits," he said smugly, fingering the wide lapels of his powder blue, polyester jacket.

"Look out, John Travolta." She widened her grin and moved away, looking for the other women.