He laid it on the bed and stared at it, unseeing. When was their last black-tie affair?

Miss Sadie’s party for the newly wed Harpers, of course. How extraordinary that the frugal Miss Sadie had done such a wondrous and extravagant thing, even having Fernbank’s shut-away ballroom restored for the occasion. He recalled tables shining with crystal and silver, the music of the eight-piece orchestra, the coved ceiling swarmed by painted angels with gilded wings—and all of it bathed in the glimmer of candlelight. It had been an evening unlike anything Mitford had ever seen, and would almost certainly never see again.

He took the pants off the hanger, inspired. All would be well—the tux would be a tad form-fitting and in need of pressing, but nothing more; he was overreacting.

He glanced toward the corner of their room at the full-length mirror, which presented Absolute Truth morning, noon, and night, whether you wanted it or not. Indeed, unless the need to know was critical, he seldom looked into it.

The need being critical, he shucked out of his clothes and walked to the mirror in his shorts and socks.

It was an inarticulate sound, like a small animal surprised in the woods.

Heaving a fairly shuddering sigh, he set about doing what had to be done. The pants wouldn’t zip all the way, much less button; any promise the jacket might have afforded was nil; and the cummerbund, albeit with Velcro, was toast.

He went to the bedroom door and closed it. This wasn’t something he wanted even his dog to witness. As for Saturday night, it was obvious that he wasn’t meant to leave the house.

•   •   •

HE FOUND CYNTHIA in the kitchen and confessed only ‘a slight gain since Miss Sadie’s party nearly a decade ago, but enough to, you know . . .’

‘I can let it out,’ she said. As far as he knew, she had never used a needle in her life. Having Cynthia Kavanagh do his alterations was as reckless as letting their son, Dooley, cut his hair.

‘Puny could help,’ she said, earnest. ‘She’s very good at that sort of thing.’

‘We don’t have a sewing machine,’ he said.

‘Right next door! Remember Hélène has a sewing machine. It’s in the living room by the piano, with all those sheets of music stacked on it. Maybe Hélène sews.’

‘People who sew don’t stack things on top of the machine.’ He knew that much, for Pete’s sake. ‘Besides, it’s an antique, it doesn’t actually work.’ His sense of doom was literally breathtaking.

‘We would use it over there,’ she said, oblivious. ‘It would be too heavy to carry through the hedge. It was her grandmother’s.’

‘Have you ever . . . ?’

‘Never. I would only show Puny or Hélène the inseams and tell them how much to let out. They would do the rest.’

For years, Puny Guthrie had kept house for him as a bachelor and thereafter for the two of them, yet he’d never heard her mention any sewing skills she may possess.

‘Have you checked the inseams?’ he asked.

‘I’ll go up and do it now. Where is it? And by the way, it’s time for your raisins.’

‘Hanging on the door.’ He was too weary to say which door. She gave him the raisin box and he emptied a few into his hand.

If he were a drinking man, it would be a double single-malt scotch, straight up—he could be that specific. Or, not wanting to betray his Irish bloodline, maybe a Paddy’s.

•   •   •

SHE FOUND HIM STARING OUT the window of the study, still cupping the raisins in his hand.

‘It doesn’t have inseams,’ she said, pale.

‘Of course it has inseams. What else would hold it together?’

‘No, I mean, it has them, of course, but they’re so narrow . . .’ She looked desperate.

‘Cheap,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘It was cheap. It must cost extra for inseams that can be let out.’

They sat on the sofa, where so many details of life had been threshed.

‘The Internet,’ she said. ‘Overnight shipping, which gives us time to hem the pants.’

‘No way,’ he said.

He didn’t want to talk about the last time they trusted the caprice of shopping on the Internet, and the thing arriving without screws to assemble it. He would never mention again how he had tracked the screws through a jungle of recorded phone messages, which eventually led to a real person who said he would take care of it immediately. He would never again speak of the many additional phone calls unanswered by the real person, and the weeks that ensued before the screws were delivered—not to his door, oh, no, but to the Local down the street, where the minuscule package had somehow fallen into a basket of California avocados and remained for a further week.

‘Why are we doing this at the last minute?’ he said.

‘Because I thought all along you were going. Why wouldn’t you go to the retirement party of a man who was your parishioner for sixteen years, your doctor for as many, a close personal friend, and the adoptive father of Dooley’s sort-of-maybe fiancée?’

He held a raisin between his thumb and forefinger, examined it, dubious.

‘It’s also worth mentioning that he saved your life,’ she said. ‘Twice.’

There was the real rub, of course. ‘Okay, okay, I said I’m going.’ He could take to his bed from this ordeal, become an invalid sipping water through a bent straw. ‘Why can’t I just wear a suit and collar?’

She gave him a look containing its own vocabulary, then stared at the bookshelves, possibly thinking of dust; he studied his loafers, thinking of nothing in particular.

He was thrilled when the doorbell rang. He leaped up and sprinted along the hall like a released felon.

‘Puny!’ Her good face, freckles and all, had cheered him ever since he first saw it more than a decade ago.

‘I know it’s my day off, but I brought you somethin’.’

‘Where are the twins?’ He knew the older set to be in school at this hour.

‘In th’ car, I don’t have but a minute. I jis’ come from seein’ Joe Joe at th’ station, he might git to be police chief.’

She was radiant, dazzling him.

‘Holy smoke. He just got to be captain.’

‘Don’t tell nobody, just Miss Cynthy.’

‘Of course. When will we know?’ he asked.

‘Maybe in a week or two is what they say.’

‘Is Rodney Underwood retiring?’

‘Kind of.’

‘Kind of?’

‘It’s still a secret, but yes, he’s leavin’ to be chief at Wesley.’

‘A big step up.’

‘So y’all pray, okay? And here’s th’ little somethin’ I brought you.’ She handed him a small envelope. ‘Take it with a full glass of water in th’ evenin’ an’ don’t leave th’ house.’

He pocketed the thing, feeling the heat in his face.

‘You’re . . . kind,’ he said.

•   •   •

‘CHESTER MCGRAW!’ she exclaimed as he walked into the study.

‘What about him?’

‘He was your size exactly. I remember seeing him from behind at Logan’s in Wesley, and thinking it was you. Timothy! I said. What are you doing in the pantyhose section? But it was Chester.’

‘What was he doing in the pantyhose section?’

‘I have no idea, he didn’t say. Anyway, he’s, you know . . .’

‘Morte,’ he said. ‘Last February. A good man, Chester, we were in Rotary together.’

‘Who was at the door?’

‘Puny.’

‘Really? What about?’

‘Just checking in, says Joe Joe might be made police chief.’

‘Wonderful. When?’

‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell anybody, it’s a secret. Have a raisin.’

‘No, thanks. He had a tux.’

‘Joe Joe?’

‘Chester. Chester had a very nice tux.’

‘Whoa, now, Kav’na.’

‘He wore it to the Children’s Hospital benefit last year, remember? When he gave that huge check. So if Irene hasn’t thrown it out . . .’

‘Wait a minute . . .’

‘Why not? He made a barrel of money in the timber business, it would be a very nice tux. I’ll call Irene, she’s a darling woman.’

He felt a provoking urge to flee to Lord’s Chapel and kneel at the railing.