As I circled through the guests with plates of sandwiches and platters heaped high with star-shaped cookies, I kept listening for the knocker at the front door. Time and time again it fell with a dull thud and a new guest was ushered into the parlor. Perhaps Tony wasn’t coming after all.

“Hey there, party people! Here I am.”

Everyone turned to look at Tony, brushed and scrubbed like a show cat, standing in the doorway. He had a bouquet of daisies in his hand a helium ballooon that said “Be Mine.” I grabbed the items from his hands and tossed them in the kitchen.

“Hello, Tony.” My voice quivered, but I took him by the elbow and led him over to the divan where Aunt Ellen was sitting with a bald-headed gentleman named “Cousin Boris.”

“Aunt Ellen,” I said, “this is my good friend, Tony Donatello.”

Tony held hs head high, but Aunt Ellen looked into his eyes and knew that he was frightened. She hesitated. “Welcome Tony Donatello,” she said, holding out her hand. “Can we get you something to drink?”