By seven thirty most of the celebratory group had left the penthouse, except for a small circle of editors engaged in a serious discussion.

Lee, Jonathan, Laurie, Carlie, and I took cabs over to one of Lee’s favorite restaurants, Keens Steakhouse on Thirty-Sixth Street. Keens, Lee told me, was a New York institution and was once a members-only pipe club. Their roster included nearly one hundred thousand names, from authors, actors, and playwrights to politicians and sports heroes, including Teddy Roosevelt, Babe Ruth, Albert Einstein, General Douglas MacArthur, and Buffalo Bill Cody.

The crowded restaurant had a pub-like feel, with a large, painted nude hanging above the bar like an old western saloon. We were taken up a short flight of stairs and seated in the Bull Moose Room, a cozier, dark-paneled room that had a large moose head mounted above the fireplace and a framed invitation to Teddy Roosevelt’s inauguration as well as other Roosevelt artifacts.

“I don’t come here enough,” Jonathan announced as we sat down. “I’ve never had a bad meal at Keens. Of course that’s probably because I order the same thing every time.”

“The mutton,” Lee said.

“Yes, their specialty.” He said to me, “You will notice the clay pipes overhead. It was an old English tradition. The men would leave their pipes at an establishment, as they were fragile and often broke in their saddlebags. This was a men’s smoking club, and women were prohibited until 1905, when Lillie Langtry, the famous actress and paramour of England’s King Edward, sued Keens for being denied access. She won her case, and it’s said she wore her feathered boa inside to order their famous mutton.”

“It sounds like I should have the mutton,” I said.

“Women fought for that right,” he replied.

“Thank you.” I whispered to Lee, “What if I don’t like mutton?”

“I’ve got you,” he said.

Even though I knew I wasn’t paying, the price was still as breathtaking as the club’s history. Lee and I decided to share the Chateaubriand steak for two, an iceberg lettuce wedge with blue cheese dressing and bacon and carrots with brown butter. Since they were most famous for their massively large muttonchop, we also ordered a “taste of mutton” so I could, at least, say that I had tried it and pay homage to Ms. Langtry and her battle for equal rights to fine mutton. All the talk of history and celebrity just further confirmed to me how out of place I really was.

After we were eating, Jonathan said to me, “Your last name is Stilton,” he said. “Like the cheese.”

“Just like the cheese,” I said.

“We’ve got some really great cheese restaurants in New York.”

“I didn’t know that cheese restaurants were a thing.”

“They are. Though I shouldn’t assume you like cheese just because of your last name. After all, my mother’s maiden name was Payne.”

I smiled at the inference. “I like cheese,” I said. “Especially Stilton.”

“You probably know that it’s illegal to make Stilton cheese in Stilton.”

“Yes. I knew that.”

“It’s the lawyers’ doing.”

“And the agents,” Laurie said. “The fly in the ointment.”

“We love our agents,” Jonathan said.

“Sure you do,” she said.

He diplomatically added, “Just sometimes more than others.”

Lee smiled at the exchange, but he was quieter than he had been. He’d been exhausted before we left for the toast. I wondered how he was keeping his eyes open.

Carlie sat quietly at one corner of the table, watching us. I wondered what was going through her mind.

Jonathan said to Lee, “Laurie says you’re headed back to the Cape for Thanksgiving.”

“Yes, then back out on the road.”

“Are you having a big gathering?”

“No. Just my brother. Maybe a few friends.” He glanced over at me. “Carlie’s going home to Michigan. And Laurie is going to…” He turned to Laurie.

“Laurie,” Laurie said, speaking in third person, “is going to Orlando to be abused by her aunt. Three days of her telling me what an Umglik I am and asking, in front of Julie, why I don’t find a nice Jewish boy and have kinder.”

“How about you, Beth?” Laurie asked.

“The usual,” I said.

“With the family?”

“Yes,” I said, “the whole family.” Lee glanced at me. He knew there was no family.

“I feel like I just ate Thanksgiving dinner,” Lee said. “I don’t think I have room for dessert.”

“We shall see,” Jonathan said. He ordered three desserts for the table: a banana foster, crème brûlée, and an affogato. It all got eaten by everyone except Lee, who had a decaf coffee while I ate too much of the banana foster. I don’t know if anyone else noticed, but he was struggling to stay awake.

“We need to get you to bed,” I said.

“That’s a really good idea.” He stood. “I don’t want to break up the party, but I need to get some sleep. My publicity team has been working me like a rented mule.”

“I’m glad they’re doing their job,” Jonathan said. “But we should wrap things up. Again, congratulations. And a happy Thanksgiving, all.”