“Hey,” said Melissa. “I know wine.”

“You know what you like, honey,” said Simon, indulgently.

“Same thing,” said Melissa, kissing the top of his head and taking his empty glass to refill it.

“See?” said Simon to Brad. “Expert opinions don’t matter to most consumers.”

“But people want the best!” said Brad. He was leaning forward, his shoulders locked, spine straight, and it struck me that he hadn’t made a smart-ass remark for a while. Usually, every other sentence had a barb or a punch line.

“But when you’re talking about wine, that’s just opinion, isn’t it?” said Simon, lounging.

“No!” Brad replied. His grin was a little fixed and his voice a tad louder than it had been. We had all been drinking since we got back to the house. “It’s measurable! There are experts whose judgment—”

“Nobody cares!” Simon laughed. “They like it, they drink it, and then it’s gone. The only people who are going to pay top dollar for what they think is the best are collectors, not consumers, and that’s too small and volatile a market.”

“But that’s not a concern for investors, is it?” said Brad. I was weary of the conversation and wished they’d shut up, but Brad wouldn’t let it go. “So long as they see their money growing, who cares whether it’s coming from a casual drinker who buys a few cases a year, a store that buys thousands, or a collector who buys one bottle of Chateaux Margaux 1875 but spends a quarter of a million dollars on it?”

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” said Simon, less playful now. “I don’t see investors making their money back on this.”

“Simon . . . ,” Brad began, earnest to the point of frustration.

“Leave it, Brad,” said Kristen, reaching over and patting his hand. He looked at her and she smiled. “Let’s have another drink, shall we? You can talk about this later.”

Brad hesitated for a second, then the tension in his face eased a little and he smiled.

“Sure,” he said. “Later. How about we open that Peter Michael Oakville Au Paradis? Gonna blow your mind.”

“I want something with vodka,” said Melissa.

“Yeah,” said Gretchen. “Get that voddy out.” She gave me a quick look and hesitated. “Voddy’s OK, right, Jan? It’s brandy you don’t drink.”

I was momentarily taken aback, wondering when I had let that slip, then nodded.

“Voddy is fine,” I said.

“Ah,” said Simon getting up. “But vodka and what? I spotted some elderflower tonic, and I had a case of basil spritzers flown over yesterday.”

For a moment, as Melissa and Gretchen oohed and aahed from the adjoining kitchen, Brad kept looking at the chair Simon had just vacated, his fists balled, and then he sat back and turned away. His gaze fell on me, and for a moment he looked—what? Caught out. Embarrassed and angry. Something hard and dark went through his eyes, and then he shrugged it off and turned to the rest of the group, getting to his feet and turning his back on me.

“Vodka it is,” he said, suddenly cheery. “Where’s my glass?”

“Are those words?”

It was Kristen. She was standing at the French doors that opened onto a brick patio with ornamental shrubs in terra-cotta pots between faded wicker furniture and a large grill, her head tilted on one side. I moved to join her.

“There,” she said, pointing at what seemed to be just dead leaves on the ground. They looked like they had been left over from someone sweeping up, the edges of former piles straggling into each other. But as I looked, squinting to wring a little focus from my terrible vision, I saw that she was right. The crisped fall leaves trailing together in little heaps of dust, sticks, and other debris formed what might be capital letters. An A stood out. And a spiky S. The rest were less clear.

“Hanos?” she murmured. “Nanos?”

“Nanos,” I said, still squinting. “But that’s not a word.”

“Just fell like that, I guess. Random.”

“Or someone swept up with a dust pan. I get those little lines on my floor where I can’t get the dirt up no matter how many times I sweep,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I wanted it to be nothing, a chance event. Something about it bothered me, partly the way it seemed arranged to be read through the window. If it was an accident, it was a strange one.

She laughed and nodded but turned from the window, still puzzled and thoughtful.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get a drink.”

An hour or so later we all went out into the garden for a few minutes, and I went back to the spot by the French doors to see if I could still read it, but the word, if it had been one, had been blown away, though there was no wind to speak of.

“OK,” said Melissa, standing up, “you guys have to promise not to get all miserable if we play the Prince song, yeah? Coz we’re gonna party.”

“Deal,” said Kristen.

“Wait,” said Brad. His previous mood, whatever it had been, was utterly gone, and he was genial and funny again. “By my calculations, we’re at day one thousand nine hundred and ninety-six. We don’t get our millennium-even party till the end of the week.”

“I can’t wait that long,” said Melissa. “Plus, who says we only get to party once, am I right?”

“You’re right,” said Simon.

“OK, then,” said Melissa, satisfied. “So I figured we would start at the very beginning. Marcus, you’re up.”

I gave him a quizzical look as he rose and began hooking his iPad up to the flat screen on the wall, muttering about compatibility issues.

“Right,” he said, turning and smiling at the rest of us. “Melissa asked me to cobble together a little presentation—sorry, Gretchen, this might be boring for you—to remind us all of why we’re here.” He tapped the iPad and the TV on the wall came to life, displaying a truly glorious photograph of the original six of us, sitting in our swimwear in deck chairs, toasting the camera with multicolored drinks. We were joy personified. Across the top, in large, festive letters, it said, “1999 days of friendship!”

Marcus made another click, and the inevitable keyboards, drums, and bass kicked in. As Prince crooned away in the background, everyone cheered and the slide show began. Every swim, every meal, every dance was catalogued, the images full of life, energy, and flashing smiles. Here was Brad with a towel on his head and an eye patch made from a napkin, waving a bottle of rum and pulling an argggh! face.

“Pirate Brad!” shouted Melissa. “I’d forgotten Pirate Brad.”

“Well, he hasn’t forgotten you, me hearty,” said Brad in his best Captain Jack Sparrow voice, leering at her.

“Check us out!” said Kristen as a picture of just the women came up, all modeling the same Charlie’s Angels pose in our bikinis. “We are svelte!”

The next image added the boys to the picture, all mimicking our look and holding halves of oranges and melons up for breasts. Gretchen about wet herself at that one. Then we were splashing each other in the sea, unwrapping grape leaves at our favorite taverna, and posing with the staff.

“Waiter boy!” Kristen exclaimed. “I’d forgotten him. He loved you,” she said to Melissa, teasing.

Melissa always seemed to be the center, the focus of attention, but she wore it so well that no one minded. There was one where you could see Brad looking at her with a kind of mute adoration that was both touching and hilarious.

“Hey, mister!” said Kristen, reaching over and slapping him lightly on the back of the head. “Save those looks for me.”

Brad winced.

“Honest to God, Officer,” he said to Simon in a bizarre hick voice, “she beats me something rotten, so she does! Domesticated abusing, it be!”

“Not to worry, my lad,” said Simon seriously. “We’ll put the mad witch behind bars; just you see if we don’t!”

“You’ve got your own little show going here, huh?” said Kristen, grinning.

“You just don’t recognize good art if there are no aliens in it,” said Brad, earning another slap upside the head.

Next up in the slide show was a gallery of each couple gazing lovingly at each other. I blushed when the one of Marcus and me came up, surprised that he had included it, but could not look at him, even as Kristen made awww noises beside me. Then there was more dancing and toasting, Melissa looking sour on a donkey, some gloomy cave formations, another meal, another round of drinks, and our notably tanned faces gazing back at the camera, smiling still, if a little weary.

“Boy, we look exhausted,” said Simon.

“Partied pretty hard,” said Melissa.

“Still going strong!” said Gretchen, as if she had been part of it all. I wanted to feel sorry for her at the way she was being excluded, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t seem to care.

The final slide was a view of the coastline from above, onto which had been Photoshopped the words: Here’s to the next 1999 days!

Marcus received his applause with a modest bow, and I found myself gazing at the blank screen in the hope of seeing more, of falling back into those pictures, that time. I don’t think I was the only one. After a moment I refilled my drink and caught Marcus’s eyes on me.