Born two months premature, Sara had been a sickly child from the start. Infections settled into her lungs, causing pneumonia and a childhood of health complications. The difficult birth had also permanently damaged a nerve in Sara’s left foot. As a child Sara had needed a brace and metal crutches to walk. Now the crutches were gone, but the brace and occasionally a cane were still in evidence.
Her youth was filled with constant hospital visits and trips to medical specialists and therapists. During endless sunny summer days Sara was forced to stay shut up in her bedroom rather than play outside with other children. Tutors visited the house or the hospital because of all the school she missed. She had few friends. Schoolmates never teased or taunted her, but they shunned the strange child and treated her like some sort of outsider. Sara was not allowed to take gym class. She had to sit on the steps during recess. Other children eyed her warily, almost frightened by the fragile, pale girl as though she represented death in a place that only understood immortality.
No matter how hard she tried not to be, Sara was always different, always coddled, always behind. She hated it. As she got older, Sara learned that the limp and brace were not as difficult to overcome as people’s perceptions. Whenever she suffered a setback, teachers were quick to offer her health as an excuse.
“It’s not your fault, Sara. If you were in perfect health . . .”
But Sara wanted to scream every time they said that. She did not want to hear excuses or use them to justify her shortcomings—she wanted to overcome them. Check that. She wanted to blow them away.
The chauffeur turned off the road and headed up the driveway. There were cars parked everywhere—Rolls Royces, Mercedes, stretch limos of all varieties, cars with special government license plates. Some chauffeurs stood around the driveway, smoking cigarettes and chatting with one another. Others stayed in the car and read newspapers.
When the limo reached the house, Sara snapped her brace back on, grabbed her cane, and proceeded as gracefully as she could toward the front door.
MICHAEL took another sip of Perrier. There was a steady ripping pain in his abdomen, but he did not mention it to Harvey. He had planned to say something, but Harvey was so distracted tonight that Michael decided to wait. He watched Harvey’s eyes shift nervously over the guests in the large ballroom. His overall appearance, always a touch disheveled, was a complete mess.
“Are you all right, Harv?”
“Fine,” he replied quickly.
“Something on your mind?”
“I . . . What time is Sara supposed to show up?”
It was the third time he had asked. “Any minute now,” Michael said. “What the hell is the big deal?”
“Nothing,” Harvey answered with a tight smile. “Your wife and I are having a torrid affair behind your back, that’s all.”
“Again? I hate it when you steal my women, Harv.”
Harvey patted his paunch and tried to arrange his wild hair. “What can I say? I’m a stud.”
Michael took another sip of his water. “What do you have planned for next week?” he asked.
“Next week?”
“Your birthday, Harv.”
“Oh,” Harvey said, “that.”
“You only turn fifty once, big fella.”
Harvey sloshed down the rest of his martini. “Don’t remind me.”
“Fifty years old,” Michael said with a whistle. “Five big decades.”
“Shut up, Michael.”
“Half a century. The golden anniversary. Hard to believe.”
“You’re a pal, Mike. Thanks.”
Michael grinned. “Come on, Harv. You’ve never looked better.”
“Yeah, well, I do get tired of beating off the women with a stick.” Harvey glanced over Michael’s shoulder and spotted Cassandra walking toward them. “Speaking of beating them off with a stick.”
“What?”
“Sister-in-law alert.”
“Where?”
Cassandra tapped his shoulder. “Hello, Michael.”
“Right behind you.”
“Thanks.” Reluctantly, Michael turned toward Cassandra. “Good evening, Cassandra.”
“Long time, no see, Michael,” she said, “Very long. Six months, I think.”
“About that. You remember my friend Harvey Riker?”
“Ah, yes. The doctor.”
Harvey stepped forward. “Nice to see you again, Cassandra.”
She nodded slightly, ignoring him, her eyes never leaving Michael’s face. “So how do I look this evening, Michael?”
“Nice.”
“Nice?” she repeated.
Michael shrugged.
“Kind of noncommittal,” Cassandra noted.
He shrugged again.
Cassandra turned her attention to Harvey for the briefest of moments. “Dr. Riker, do you agree with Michael’s assessment?”
Harvey cleared his throat. “Uh, a lot of words come to mind, Cassandra. Nice is not one of them.”
She smiled briefly, her gaze back upon Michael. “Michael, can we talk for a moment?”
“Look, Cassandra—”
“It’s okay,” Harvey interrupted. “I need to freshen my drink anyway.”
They both watched him walk away. In front of the ballroom the band Dr. Lowell had hired finished their rendition of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” and moved on to “Feelings.” The lead singer sounded like a cat caught in a Cuisinart.
“Care to dance?” Cassandra asked.
“No, thanks.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not in the mood. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Stop being rude, Michael. I’ll get to it in a minute. Pretend this is foreplay. You’ve heard of foreplay, haven’t you?”
“I think I read something about it in Cosmo.”
“Good. How do you like my dress?”
“Divine. What do you want?”
“Michael—”
“You’re not really going to start this shit again, are you?”
“What shit?”
“You know what shit, Cassandra.”
“I do?”
“I’m married to Sara, for chrissake. You remember Sara—blond, petite, gorgeous, lousy taste in music, your sister.”
“So?”
Michael rolled his eyes. “So why do you keep bothering me? Why do you always come on like some soap opera harlot?”
She looked at him. “You don’t approve of me, do you, Michael?”