Moonlightaholics

Smith glanced around the other boxes, never letting his gaze stray down to the orchestra seats. After all, anyone worth knowing would be in a box. “Summer,” he said negligently. “No one in town if they can be elsewhere.”

“I don’t suppose they’d let a little thing like a civil war stand in the way of their seasonal migration.”

That bought him a laugh from Smith. “Not a chance, Fitz. New York society would refuse to acknowledge the Apocalypse, if it fell on an unacceptable date.”

Josef smirked. There was a reason he enjoyed Smith’s company, beyond the fellow feeling he had for another with a secret to hide. “How about the Second Coming?” he asked as innocently as he could.

Schuyler Smith snorted. “My dear Mr. Fitzgerald. His name is not found on the Social Register.”