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Their search for Gatsby led them first to the bar, then to a gothic library panelled in carved English oak, where a drunk, owl-eyed middle-aged man marvelled aloud that the shelves of books were real, not cardboard props, rushing to grab a volume of the Stoddard Lectures to prove it, and muttering that if a single brick was removed from the shelves, the whole library would collapse. Back in the garden, the party hit its peak: a famous tenor sang Italian arias, a contralto performed jazz, and the stage twins Nick had met earlier did a baby act in costume, while champagne was served in bowls bigger than finger-glasses. Just as the orchestra launched into Vladimir Tostoff’s Jazz History of the World, Nick realized the man he had been chatting with about their shared WWI service was Gatsby himself, the host with the rare, reassuring smile that made him feel seen and welcome. Gatsby excused himself to take a phone call, and when Jordan returned from a private word with him, she was flustered, refusing to share what they had discussed, only pressing her phone number into Nick’s hand under the alias Mrs. Sigourney Howard.
As the party wound down, with wives hauling their disgruntled husbands out to the cars, Nick spotted a crash in the driveway: a coupé had sheared its wheel on a wall, and Owl Eyes was standing dazed beside it, insisting he hadn’t been driving, while the actual driver, dopey and disoriented, asked if there was a nearby gas station, unaware the wheel had fallen off. Nick left Gatsby standing alone on his porch, waving goodbye, a strange quiet settling over the estate after the night’s chaos.
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