Free Twanged by Carol Higgins Clark

Bettina, and I are so honored to have Brigid O’Neill and her band as our guests this week. We’re also honored to have Nora Regan Reilly with us, and her husband, Luke.”
    Nora raised her glass and smiled.
    “Hnnnn,” sounded from the crowd.
    “We’re very pleased,” Bettina said with a big smile. “Chappy and I are very, very pleased to host you all this evening.”
    Sounds like a canned response, Regan thought.
    Chappy kissed her on the cheek and continued. “I want to welcome everyone else here tonight. I hope you’ll all get to be friends.” He paused, somewhat soulfully, Regan thought, as speakers always do before they say something they think is meaningful. Chappy did not disappoint. “. . . I have always been interested in music, especially country music, and I could think of no better way to enhance the Melting Pot Festival than to invite Brigid, a daughter of Ireland, to participate.”
    He waited as people attempted to applaud while holding their drinks. “As you might know, I am building a theatre right on this property that will be up and operating next summer. I intend to play my part in contributing to the arts in the Hamptons by producing plays that my invited guests will enjoy on summer evenings. But right now I urge you all to enjoy yourselves. Eat, drink, and be merry!”
    “Hnnn,” Louisa grunted approvingly. A few feet from Regan, she turned to Peace Man, who was right next to her.
    “I’m Louisa Washburn. I didn’t catch your name,” she said to him.
    “Peace Man.”
    “Peace to you, too. And your name is?”
    “Peace Man. That’s a name.”
    “How interesting,” Louisa said, “What is it you do?”
    “Peace Man opens the door to inner peace for others.”
    “Uh-huh.” Louisa took a quick sip of her tropical drink and patted the flower in her hair. “I’m a fact-checker and I do research,” she said as she started to invade his seventeen inches of personal space. “Facts facts facts. I’m writing an article on the Hamptons, and I would love to interview you.”
    Regan watched as Chappy escorted Brigid from group to group. She turned to Kit. “The people from your house seem nice. Although Garrett did ask me about my stock portfolio already.”
    “Oh, I know,” Kit said. “I told him that when it comes to my investments, he should save his breath.” They both looked over to the group by the window, where the tall, rangy, brown-haired Gar-rett, dressed in khaki pants, short-sleeved Lacoste shirt, and loafers with no socks, stood holding a vodka and tonic. He was deep in discussion with the guys from the radio station, who, dressed in blue jeans, cowboy boots, and spangly shirts, provided a marked contrast to his appearance.
    “Let’s join them,” Regan said.
    As they said hello, Louisa came up behind them. “So many good-looking young men at this party! And who are you?” When she found out that Brad and Chuck ran the radio station she was, as usual, ecstatic. “I know that station! No one could ever make a go of it. But I’m sure you will. It’s a tough, tough business. I do research and fact-checking so I know how many radio stations fail—”
    “Research?” Chuck interrupted. “Maybe you can do some work for us.”
    “I’d love to.” Louisa beamed.
    Regan and Kit retreated to the bar, where the amply busted Angela had planted herself. Her streaked blond hair was pulled up on her head, with just enough strands hanging down to look sexy. “Being an actor must be so interesting,” she was saying as she leaned over to talk to Duke. “I was asked to pose nude once, but I thought my grandmother would have a cow.”
    Kit whispered into Regan’s ear: “She’s determined to find a husband this summer.”
    Duke looked at them. “What’ll you have?”
    “White wine,” they both answered.
    He seems amiable, Regan thought. Is he serious about acting? she wondered. With his muscular build and blond hair, he looked as if he could go up for a remake of