Chapter 19: Ten Minutes Early

We reached the Rutledge Club at twelve-fifteen, forty-five minutes before the new hour.

The lot was already full.

Silver sedans and white vans lined the circle drive, and a valet in a black vest was waving cars toward the lawn.

Conroy parked the truck behind a hedge, where no one would see the dust on its doors.

"Ready?" he asked.

I looked down at my dress.

The tailor had put it right on Friday afternoon, and Conroy's floor had not been kind to it.

At seven I had gone home, shaken it out, and pulled it on again with Amos zipping the back.

He had said nothing the whole time, and that was how I knew he approved.

"Ask me again at the door," I said.

The doorman at the front steps held a clipboard.

I walked up in the white silk with Conroy at my elbow and a leather folder under my arm.

He looked at me and went pale.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. Your name was struck from the list this morning."

"By whom?"

"Mrs. Rutledge. She said you'd be taken ill."

"Do I look ill?"

He swallowed.

"I have to stop you," he said. "Please don't make me call anyone."

"We won't," Conroy said.

He took my hand and turned me away from the steps.

We walked along the side of the building, past a row of hydrangeas gone brown, to a steel door propped open with a milk crate.

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