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about,” I said to Russell. “We’re at a party. Let’s mingle and mill. Maybe I can get some quotes for my article.”
    We got three steps before bumping into a couple with matching golden tans.
    “Darrin Aschbacher,” the man said, holding his hand out to me, “entrepreneur.”
    “Molly Hallberg,” I said, shaking his hand, “salaried person.”
    “I’m Marya,” the woman said, “with a y .”
    “ Y where?” I asked.
    “Everyone thinks my name’s spelled with an i, but it’s a y .” Her tone said, My cross to bear.
    “I’m Dr. Russell Edley,” Russell said, shaking hands with Darrin Aschbacher, entrepreneur.
    “What specialty?” Marya asked.
    “Chiropractic,” Russell said.
    “Oh, that kind of doctor.” She couldn’t have looked more dismissive if he’d said he delivered pizzas.
    “A lot of dancers from the New York City Ballet go to Russell,” I said.
    “My chiropractor claims that,” Marya said.
    “They all claim that,” Darrin said.
    Then we played the “How do you know the Bendingers?” game. Oh, really? Yes! How do you know the Bendingers! I figured it was as good a time as any to slip in a quick interview. I said to Marya, “You seem like a happy couple. How did you know Darrin was the one?”
    “The one what?” she asked.
    “The one for you.”
    “You mean why’d I marry him?”
    “Yes. I suppose I do.”
    “That was thirty-five years ago,” Darrin said.
    “Thirty-seven,” Marya said.
    “Who can remember these things?” Darrin said, shrugging.
    Russell and the Aschbachers moved on to chatting about back pain while I noticed a couple arriving across the lawn. I recognized Heike Vogel from newspapers; she’s one of the most powerful women producers in Hollywood—the grand total of women producers adding up to about five. Two years earlier she’d produced a notorious bomb, a May-December comedystarring Justin Bieber and Diane Keaton that went straight to DVD. Everyone said Heike was ruined after that, but she bounced right back with a Jennifer Aniston hit. EyeSpy gave the movie a half-star review but the public loved it, saving Heike Vogel’s reputation.
    It’s easy to recognize Heike. She has bright-pink hair and wears oversize, black-frame glasses and used to be famous for sleeping with old-time Hollywood studio czars and legends, but now she’s in her late sixties and most of the legends are dead. Her escort wore a Cincinnati Reds ball cap that stood out more than Heike’s hair. Ball caps are rarely seen in the Hamptons, and Cincinnati Reds caps are never seen. Two women walked up and kissed him hello. Heike headed off in the direction of the bar. The man removed his cap and stuck it in his back pocket; he looked at least twenty years younger than Heike. Was he her son? Her lover? Her baseball coach? Another woman scurried up and greeted him.
    “Oh! Do you know who’s here!” Marya said to me.
    “No.”
    Without saying good-bye or excuse me or please step aside before I mow you down, she made a beeline to Mr. Reds Fan.
    Russell and Darrin had moved on to discussing financial opportunities in neck braces, and I excused myself to refill my drink and maybe get to meet Heike. A quote from her, for my soul-mate piece, would be a total coup. She was standing by herself at a cloth-covered table lined with bottles of liquor and wine, holding her phone out the distance of aneighboring state and speed-tapping with two thumbs. I can never do that—that double-thumb thing. I headed toward her, trying to act cool and journalistic.
    “Damn cell service,” she said, tossing her phone into a large straw tote. She picked up a glass of wine and eyed me over the top of her big frames. “Who are you?” she asked. She immediately glazed over and looked past my shoulder. “Oliver! Darling!” she cried.
    I turned to see Oliver West. Oliver is a darling of the art world, at least for those who like expensive paintings of women with no faces. Oliver and Heike double-cheek