A t dinner, Evvie glances over to my table. Our

     eyes meet in satisfaction. How gorgeous everything is. The dining room shines with dazzling glass chandeliers, sparkling dinnerware, starched napkins—or serviettes, as the waiter pronounces it as he places one in my lap. Evvie is in heaven. She, too, is sparkling as she chats with her tablemates.

  The people at Wilmington House take dressing for dinner fairly seriously. The women are all in cocktail dresses. The men wear suits and ties. The room is quiet except for very low conversation and soft elevator music playing in the background.

  I look around my table. No one is smiling. The woman next to me introduces herself as Lorraine Sanders. She sits head high, body stiff, her lips pursed as if she's eaten something sour. In a matter of moments she informs me that her husband had lived here with her, but he died three years ago and she still misses him terribly. She points. "You're in his seat." With that, she touches the back of my chair as she gives me a resentful look.

  As if I am sitting on his ghost. I wonder if she dusts it off every day. Oy.

  Seymour Banks, tall, thin, not much hair, overly polite, in the next chair over, announces he lost his wife four years ago. He sighs long and hard.

  Anna Kaplan, sweet-faced, shy, and somewhat heavy, says her husband died five years ago, but she informs me that doesn't mean she's gotten over it, either. With that, the hankie comes out of the pocket for many mournful sniffles.

  I have the feeling they know one another's woeful stories by heart. I am aware they are all wearing dark colors as opposed to the brighter outfits all around the room. Lucky me. I guess they've put me at the bereavement table. And for a moment I suspect Hope Watson did that on purpose. I wouldn't put it past her.

  After those pronouncements, my companions stop talking or even looking at one another and focus on their meals.

  I glance over to Evvie's table, where she is smiling and animated in conversation. Leave it to her. Wherever she goes, she turns it into a party. Though I doubt even she would be able to warm up my lackluster group.

  I am reminded of one of Evvie's and my favorite scenes in a much-loved Woody Allen movie, Stardust Memories. Woody is riding on a train filled with sad, drably dressed, pathetic-looking people. They are filmed all in black and white. A train passes theirs. It's filmed in color. Gorgeous, young, happy people drinking champagne and laughing. The expression on Woody's face says it all.

  A marvelous cinematic moment, and I feel I'm living it now. Wait 'til I tell Evvie later. She'll get it immediately.

  Hope Watson taps her fork gently against a glass and the room stills. "Good evening, everyone." Everyone parrots, "Good evening, Hope." I can't believe it. Sounds like kindergarten.

  "Some of you have already met our latest arrivals. Let me formally introduce them to you. At table five is Evelyn Markowitz of New York City and Fort Lauderdale." Evvie is urged to stand up. She does and she receives polite applause. "Evelyn's hobbies are writing articles and attending movies, plays, and all forms of entertainment. I'm sure she will find much of that right here on our own campus. In fact, tonight we are showing a wonderful old classic, Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn in Adam's Rib. Perhaps she'll do a movie review for us."

  Evvie instantly responds, "You bet I will."

  "Well, then, we'll be looking forward to that."

  Evvie smiles broadly and sits down.

  Hope turns to me. "At table three, meet Gladys Gold." I am urged to stand. "She is also formerly from New York, but then again, so many of you are." That gets polite laughs. "She has just recently arrived in Florida. I know she'll be happy not to see snow anymore. I hope you left your furs behind."

  I smile the saccharine smile that Hope seems to bring out in me.

  "Gladys enjoys reading and walks on the beach, and sometimes writes poetry." Again a smattering of applause. Evvie created my so-called bio. I just pray nobody asks me to recite a poem.

  My tablemates acknowledge me briefly with little enthusiasm.

  Hope is not through. "And before I forget, let me remind everyone of the monthly mixer this Saturday night. Ladies and gentlemen, get out your fabulous finery. It will be a gala evening for one and all." There is applause and murmuring at this announcement.

  Whew. That's over, we're back to dinner. And what a meal it is. Gourmet, all the way. The chef comes from France, I'm told. I can't help but think of the girls back home. I hope they took a cab and went out for an early-bird special tonight. Then I wouldn't feel so guilty.

  I make one more stab at dinner conversation. "Will you all be at the mixer?"

  Anna continues eating as she speaks. "What for? My Harry won't be there for me to dance with." She sounds so pathetic. "Those others think they can still find love. When you're old, it's over."

  "Ditto for me." Lorraine studies the dessert card. "We've already had our share of happiness. I stay in my room and put earplugs in so I won't hear the noise."

  I'm afraid to ask Seymour. But he volunteers his response. He shrugs. "I come. I listen. I like the music. I don't dance."

  Well, that was stimulating.

  We are on our coffee and dessert when the dining room doors are suddenly flung open and a man appears. He stretches his arms out and says, "Oh, dear, I suppose I'm too late for dinner."

  Everyone turns to look at him. Indeed, he is something to behold. For a man of seventy-five, he seems in excellent physical condition. He is about five foot ten, resplendent in a tuxedo and matching cape with a red lining and a black fedora. His glistening, dark, wavy hair is steel gray at the temples. His eyes are electric blue and for a man his age, he is utterly handsome.

  He bows. In a plummy English accent, he says, "May I introduce myself? My name is Philip Smythe."

  After dinner, as we are walking out of the dining room, Evvie purposely passes me, grinning. She whispers, "Wow. What an entrance. Smythe doesn't look like he could murder anybody, except maybe onstage. With that outfit he should be playing Dracula in summer stock."

  "Dracula killed his women, don't forget," I whisper back.

  Evvie laughs. "In books and onstage, Glad, make-believe stuff."

  "I can see his appeal. Every woman in the place is gaping at him."

  "Looks to me like this will be a whole lot of fun. I intend to enjoy myself. A lot!"

  Evvie hurries to catch up to the other residents heading for the screening room. "See ya at the movies!" she calls back to me.