When Alison did show - nearly one hour late - she was still wearing her smock from her studio. She apologized to the thirty-some people gathered on her lawn, and explained that she had gotten "caught up" with an art project and didn't notice the time. No one doubted her for an instant.
Mrs. Davenport, as Alison now called Delores, her sometimes stay-over domestic, had everything prepared. Large gulf shrimp lounged nonchalantly on beds of crushed ice, surrounded by a visual cacophony of colorful fruits. There were bacon-wrapped scallops, baked salmon roulade on a potato galette, wonton purses, and of course Mrs. Davenport at the carving table offering beef tenderloin with horseradish sauce, Creole mustard, or with a Bordelaise-style red wine sauce. In other words, it was everyday fare for Sanibel - nothing special. But tasty!
When Alison did show, festivities were in full swing. Doctor Wilson was holding court on the virtues of the discredited theory that says man's consciousness, his self-aware thoughtfulness, arose from the merging of experience, memories and hallucinations to form metaphorical thought. She needed to warn Mrs. Davenport not to put out the better wines so early; not if Dr. Wilson was expected.
