"C'mon Ti, we don't want to be the last ones there." Daryl was anxiously watching, the outdoor lights blink on around Grace's house.

"Oh, sock it Daryl, it's only three doors down for god's sake." She made some adjustments to the belt holding her Cobalt blue crossover dress closed, and stepped gingerly into a pair of sling pumps that matched the rust coloured belt. "There, all set- my god Daryl! You look like an usher at a children's carnival. That tie just screams for mercy with that outfit."

"What do you mean?" He hurried to a wall mirror, plucking at the knot worriedly.

"I'm not leaving this house with you in that tie. Change it. Never mind, I'll choose one. I hope you have something that goes with that awful shirt. For someone who sells designer fashions, you have distressingly poor taste."

"This is a designer shirt- and so is the tie!" He complained bitterly.

"Yes, one designed by Emmet Kelley, and the other by Salvador Dali. Here, put this on, and hurry, we don't want to be the last to arrive." Tiffany grabbed her handbag and teetered to the front door.

*****

"Now I've left her story books on her bed, and she gets two of these cookies and a small glass of juice." Shelia stood in the kitchen instructing Arlene Richardson on Candy's care. "Bedtime is no later than seven-thirty and it's lights out no later than eight o'clock. Okay?" Arlene drew in a long breath and answered politely. "Now we'll just be down the street a your parent's house, so if you need anything, I've left the number right here." Shelia squared the notepad on the counter, tapping it with firm confidence.

"Hon, I'm sure Arlene knows her own phone number, c'mon, Candy will be fine." He traded a long-suffering roll of eyes with the young babysitter.

"Okay then I guess we're off. Don't forget to turn on the monitor when you come downstairs now, will you."

"I won't forget, Mrs. Croft. Have a nice time." She bit her lip, watching Mr. Croft making funny faces behind his wife.

"Let's go, Shelia." He took her arm, dragging her from the room.

"All right, I'm coming- there's some pop and cold meat in the fridge if you want make–"

"Shelia!"

Arlene wiped her brow exaggeratedly, and went to the window, making certain they were indeed on their way, then took out her cell-phone and dialed. "Carlos? They're gone."

*****

Denise levered herself out of the cramped Porsche and stood in the driveway fixing her hair. Satisfied their gravel spewing, hell-driver arrival, hadn't disturbed her carefully arranged do, she slipped the compact back in her bag and picked her way across the drive to the brick sidewalk that ran down beside the lawn.

"Is it really necessary to arrive here like the space shuttle?"

"Cars like this baby are meant to be driven, you don't rubberneck along in a Spider." Donald shook his head disparagingly and hopped around the car to take her arm.

"Maybe not, but you need a rubber neck to ride in one."

"Hah, hah. Watch you're your step there," he helped her down the curb onto the brick road, "still some puddles from the rain."

Denise stopped dead. "I can't walk here if it's wet. These shoes are suede."

He looked down at the skimpy strands of leather comprising the tops of her high heels. "Your feet would get wet before those strings would."

The sodium-vapour glow from the ornamental streetlights glittered fiercely in her eyes, and he quickly lost the smirk, scooping her up like a new bride, and hurrying down the street.

"Be careful, this material creases." She warned.

"Yes, I'll carry you without touching your damned dress, Denise." He grunted and puffed, unused to the stress of exertion.

*****

"Oh. Look who's arrived!" Ellen sparkled to no one in particular, opening the double doors to admit the Crofts and the Baders. The three women blew kisses past each other while taking sly inventories of hair and wardrobe.

"We had the furthest to come," Gertrude Bader made a small moue, "so you'll forgive if we're a little early."

"Your timing is perfect Gertrude, I can see some of the others coming up the drive now." She waved them on through, merrily, accepting the prerequisite kisses from the men on her tilted cheek.

"And who's this now?" She turned back to greet the next arrival, "Oh, Donald, how chivalrous!"

"Her shoes..." He groaned, setting Denise down with a thump.

"And aren't they just marvy? So nice to see you again, Denise." Another exchange of faux kissing. "Just go inside with the others, I have to stand sentinel. The host's work is never done, you know."

When the last of the neighbours arrived, Ellen danced into the living room, scouring the area for Hartley's staff, assuring they were on active duty. Ross plunged into a dreamy rendition of, Someone to Watch Over Me, as the guests moved about like amoebas between the living room and the patio.

"Where's the guest of honour, Jeff?" Allen asked innocently, sipping his beer out of a champagne flute.

"Excuse me?" Ellen turned from her conversation with the Braithewaites, staring at her husband.

"Victoria Moss and her nephew." Allen stopped mid sip, seeing a tongue of flame appear in Ellen's eyes.

"May I speak with you a moment Jeffrey." She gave Allen a tight smile and dug her nails into Jeffrey's arm, dragging him out of earshot behind a heavy glass, étagère. "Victoria Moss?"

Jeffrey fumbled uncomfortably. "I meant to tell you, El, the council decided it would be a good idea if this new playwright came and met everyone. He suggest–"

"The council decided!" She hissed ominously. "You'd better tell me just what the hell is going on here, Jeffrey."

Jeffrey did just that, as quickly and benignly as possible, gently squeezing her arms. As his argument progressed, he increased his pressure, desperate to stem her impending well of tears.

"This was my party- for my kitchen," she sniffled loudly, trying for anger but feeling herself slip into disappointed dismay.

"It's still your party... they'll love your kitchen, and this other, well it won't really interfere..." Jeffrey cringed at the narrowing of her eyes.

"For your sake, it had better not." She dabbed delicately at her mascara, and rushed away to her new kitchen.

"Hartley must be turning over a new leaf, providing a black bartender for an event like this." Cal, whispered to Melaine, who had managed to stand near him without attracting attention.

"He has some arrangement with Antonio. Hartley gets all the post service business that's required at the funeral parlor in exchange for hiring Henry whenever he's needed. Antonio doesn't have to pay him as much for his work at the home if he can keep him busy with part time jobs." Melaine considered him over the rim of her glass as she spoke.

"Is he really that tight? God, I've heard rumours, but that's really cheesy."

"Take a look at poor Carmela, she wears the same dress to every occasion." They both examined the docile woman sitting by herself on the end of a settee, hands clasped, and knees together; a solitary island in the milling crowd.

"Jeez, and I thought these Latins were a lusty, romantic lot- well, they did manage Carlos."

"That was a low blow." She scolded mildly. "Speaking of things low, have you seen Ti's dress?" Melaine sipped her drink and rolled her eyes at him. "If there's anything under it I'd be surprised."

"Cal smiled sardonically, glancing quickly about the room for the women in question. "From what I gather, Tiffany's the quintessential girl scout- always prepared."

"Cal! I trust you're just quoting hearsay." She giggled, and placed a light hand on his arm.

"Oh absolutely." He showed her a mock leer. Cal was quite taken with Melaine; more than once he had watched her with lusty appraisal, from his kitchen window.

They watched silently as the object of their gossip bent forward, giggling at some amusing comment, her dress folding open like the page of a book, and turned away together to conceal a laugh.

"So tell me, Sheila. What do you think of this young man?" Milo positioned himself between the Crofts, one arm resting comfortably around the young woman's waist. The noisy crowd intruded and he leaned close to her face as he spoke. "He's opposing me in a case I can't possibly lose."

"Oh I'm rather used to Bill's fixation on lost causes."

"Don't be too quick to judge, dear, Milo always comes on like the man of the hour."

"William, what can I say? Even your lovely wife knows your penchant for defending losers." His fingers clenched slightly on her waist and she blushed a smile across at her husband.

"Alright... Milo, no more teasing. Business and parties don't mix well."

"You're right Sheila, it's unfair to tease William about his business." Milo turned a paternal smile on his adversary, using the opportunity to squeeze Sheila a little closer.

Bill bowed politely, reaching his hand out to his wife. "My sentiment exactly, Milo?"

Reluctantly, he allowed Sheila to escape his embrace and move to her husband's side. "Just enjoy the evening, that's why we're all here." He kissed Sheila's hand, squeezed Bill's shoulder, and strolled away.

"He makes me a little uncomfortable, hon." She whispered, watching him go.

"Oh c'mon Sheel, he's just a harmless poser." He leaned over and kissed her temple affectionately.

"I think I'll check with Arlene." He sagged disconsolately as she hurried off to find a telephone.

*****