With a nod of civility to the seated artist, John began the procurement. "Are you available this evening, madam?"

The doxy tossed her head, the move liberating a riot of brown waves from her chignon. "Available in what way?"

Careful not to touch her, not in any way, especially not her full bosom, he leaned into her. "A fourth of July fuck," he whispered impatiently into her ear. "What else would you think?"

She made her reply inaudible to all, save him. "What I think is that you have all the subtlety of a swill-eating pig and the boorish manners to match."

He grinned at her snarled insult. "I make you no denial, there. But, have no fear, pigs never shit where they sleep. Now would you spare me a few moments of your time? I shan’t keep you long." He set his terms. "We can either have the -- er -- discourse here, in the company of your friend, or in private. Your choice."

"We have nothing to discuss, either in public or in private, Mr. Donovan."

"Oh, I believe we do. A small business matter you entered into with me on Christmas Eve, the terms left unfulfilled. A rather large purse of money is involved, a substantial investment in goods not delivered…"

In a sweep of navy skirts, she turned to her patron on the blanket. "If you will excuse me, Phillip?"

"But of course, my dear. Though, really," the artist said, agreeably, his half-mast gaze sinking to the front of John’s trousers, "there is no need. We are all sophisticated adults here. I see no reason to pussyfoot around the same-- well -- pussy. I have no reservations about sharing. In fact, my dear, since you promised me amusement, I can think of no more amusing way to celebrate the holiday than by having a threesome on the Fourth. We can adjourn to my studio and start the festivities there. That is, if we are all in agreement."

The Fitzgerald woman flashed her disappointed-gray eyes at him. "What say you, sir?"

John smiled. "Lead the way."