Carmela felt isolated and embarrassed, even though Tiffany's suggestion that she needed pointers amused her. If only Antonio could leave his arrogance behind and enjoy life as it came. She knew that she would be the one to pay when they were alone later. She desperately wanted to find a restroom but was afraid to leave without her husband's permission, and when Gertrude Bader approached her, she seemed to shrink within herself.

"Mrs. Begarra, you look so lost and forlorn." Her greeting rang more with amusement than concern. The two women had rarely spoken before; their association as neighbours extending to little more than polite nods and waves when encountering one another, but Gertrude was a compassionate soul who found great pleasure in providing solace and sanctuary to any and all, in distress. She seated herself beside the nervous woman, placing an arm resembling a piece of white driftwood about her shoulders.

"Antonio- my husband- he is very upset." Carmela's eyes flitted about the room searching for Gertrude's husband.

"Well he shouldn't have left you just sitting here like some kind of highway marker."

"Excuse me?"

Gertrude took her hands and smiled gregariously. "Men are such big children sometimes."

Carmela looked shocked. "Oh no! Antonio is a very considerate–"

Batting her eyes and waving off the protest, the plump woman stood up, pulling Carmela after her. "You just come with me and mix with some of the other wives until things settle down, Antonio can join us over here."

"Oh really, Mrs. Bader, he- he expects me to be–"

"Tut tut, don't worry dear. I'll look after your husband." Gertrude sailed across the room, towing the worried Carmela behind her.

Ellen appeared in the kitchen doorway, beckoning anxiously to Shelia Croft. Excusing herself from her group, Shelia joined Ellen in a hurried whisper and the two women disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Tony's such a damned hot head," Daryl complained, bristling at the sharp nudge from Denise, who apologized quickly for her instinctive response.

"His wife is right behind you," she whispered, by way of explanation.

"Well, I sure pity her, married to that guy." He said, lowering his voice and carving a chunk out of Hartley's seafood fountain, leaving it canting precariously toward the arm of a royal blue, velvet club chair.

"Here they come now," Gregg shushed, as Antonio emerged from the kitchen between the two women.

The trio strode straight out to the patio, and necks craned to watch as the pantomime dance of fence mending ensued. After a few moments, they all came back inside, and Ellen fixed the witnesses with a cautioning flash of her eyes.

"Hartley! I think it's time for your dessert creation," she cried cheerily, pushing the party back toward its happier tone.

"Look at them Nigel," Victoria murmured in her nephew's ear, taking his arm and guiding him into the dining room, "they're writing your play for you. I told you this would work."

She was right. Amazingly enough, they were creating the very play he'd described; the pre production bickering, the juggling for positions. The dialogue was being scripted as he watched.

"Let them come to you," she cautioned, sensing his growing excitement. "You just pay close attention to everything that's going on, my boy. Mark my words, this play is a done deal."

Grace maneuvered herself to a spot in line next to Donald, assessing Denise's reaction when she took his arm and asked about one of the dishes on the table. "I think they're crab cakes." He said easily, enjoying the intimacy.

Grace smiled and leaned closer to the table. "So do you think that green colour is intentional, or is it mould?"

"Donald laughed and nudged Denise, "What do you think Denise, should crab cakes be green?"

"Since they aren't crab cakes, I don't think the colour matters really." She said, noting Grace's hand around his arm, with a surprising lack of concern.

"Try one," Grace dared, "don't worry if anything happens... I'm a doctor."

Donald laughed again, less comfortably this time, feeling Grace pressing against him.

"I think I'll uh, pass on the green food." He pleaded, and placed his free hand around Denise's waist.

"Coward." She teased, taking one of the pastries and biting into it, "...oh, it's cheese and mushroom, here, try some!"

Before he could object, she pushed the rest of the pastry into his mouth, wiping her finger slowly across his lips. Donald chewed automatically, looking at both women with a silly smile and reaching for a napkin to wipe away the remnants around his mouth.

"I'm going to see if Ellen needs any help in the kitchen," Denise said pleasantly, "you two can stay and play, guess the contents." She gave Grace a friendly smile, trailing her hand across Donald's cheek as she left.

"I hope I didn't intrude on anything... important."

"No, no, not at all," Donald said hesitantly, glancing down at the outline of her hip beneath the silk slacks. She joined her other hand around his arm and smiled sweetly at his perusal, "Good, let's do as Denise suggested then... and guess the contents."

The conversation focused entirely on Nigel's proposal as they all crowded around Hartley's dessert buffet in the dining room. Ideas burst from the various guests like freshly popped corn, assigning tasks and designating duties- all from erupting egos, anxious to be a part of something that had yet to be defined. Even the perennially grumpy Antonio found himself drawn to the project, ostensibly due to the suggested need for his cosmetic skills. By evening's end, Nigel had not only amassed a wealth of ideas for plot and dialogue, his eager participants had energetically lobbied for roles not even imagined, let alone written. The poignant melody, 'Til We Meet again, echoed softly from the patio as the guests jockeyed out the front door and down the drive, its sentiment repeated in various forms of farewell. Daryl slipped into his, Good Neighbour Sam role, assisting Grace over the curb and carefully down the slippery brick road, offering a token hand behind him to his trailing wife.

Tripping daintily, with Victor in tow, Susan caught up with Nigel and Victoria, insisting they let Victor drive them home.

"How very kind," Victoria said, accepting without hesitation and steering Nigel across the street to Victor's Volvo station wagon.

"You ride up front with Victor," Susan suggested emphatically, "you'll be more comfortable and you'll have more leg room. I'll squeeze into the back with Nigel." Nigel moaned to himself, pulling his legs in despite the spacious rear passenger compartment. His eyes leaped to the rear view mirror, fixing Victor's in a grip of impending terror, as Susan slid across the wide seat and nudged against him.

"Smashing vehicle, Victor," he croaked weakly, "very roomy." He watched the hooded eyes find his own in the dark interior, praying that the mirror's range didn't include Susan's hot hand on his leg.

"Victor likes the solid feel and the excellent safety features, don't you dear?" She turned sideways to face Nigel. "Listen, I think everyone was really impressed with your suggestion," an emphatic squeeze of his leg accompanied each phrase, "we must get our heads together and discuss costumes and sets; it will take quite a while to prepare the necessary props- depending on your needs, of course." The threatening fingers crept a little higher.

"Uuuh- uuh, Victoria and I will be happy to attend any meetings." He pulled his knees together defensively, alarmed when the hand moved with them, "But uhmm- we have to aah- we have to create a working draft of the play first. I'm sure you uhmm, understand that." He tried a pleading smile, keeping his panicky focus on the rear view mirror.

The safe, solid ride of the Volvo was suddenly tested by an errant pothole, jarring the passengers, while simultaneously inflicting the ultimate trespass of Nigel's ineffectual defenses. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened as he felt the noticeable increase in pressure.

"So sorry," Victor said unconvincingly, "everyone okay?"

"Eeeeew, we're fine, dear," Susan breathed, with more than a dash of passion, her busy fingers driving Nigel's heart rate to a speed approaching sound. Mercifully, the Volvo finally turned into Victoria's driveway, bouncing to halt. Nigel extracted himself from a final, possessively ardent squeeze, and escaped into the driveway where he stood in hunched embarrassment, anxiously awaiting Victoria's casual exit.

"Thank you so much, Victor," she purred, smiling judiciously at Susan as she closed the door. Nigel stood frozen in the drive until the Volvo was well on its way then hobbled quickly to front door ahead of his aunt.

"You seem a little distressed, Nigel." She grinned slowly at his beleaguered expression.

"I'd rather not discuss it, Victoria." He pleaded.

She unlocked the door, stepping inside and flipping on the hall light. "A good writer makes the most of any experience, my boy. It's all grist for the creative mill." She leaned over, gave him a peck on the cheek, and said good night, politely ignoring the reason for his aberrant posture.