Chapter 11: Man of the Year

The Beaufort Yacht Club ballroom had white tablecloths, brass lamps and two hundred people who had known my family all their lives.

I walked in at seven sharp in my dress blues.

Myra walked in beside me in a dark green dress, with her braid pinned up and her hand on my arm.

Every head turned.

The room had the hush of a congregation that has heard something and hasn't decided what.

My mother rose from table one with her arms already open.

"Roan," she said. "My boy. You came."

She kissed my cheek.

She smelled like lilies and starch, and her pearls were cold against my collar.

"Smile," she whispered. "They're watching."

"I know."

She took me by the elbow and steered me toward the seat she'd marked.

Dixon sat at the head of the table in a tuxedo, a plaque already waiting at his place.

Brynn sat beside him, huge in a pale yellow dress, her hand on her stomach, her eyes on the tablecloth.

She did not look up.

Dinner was an hour of crab cakes and small talk.

My mother introduced me to the commodore as "my Marine," and to his wife as "our hero."

I ate three bites and said nothing.

Myra ate everything, loudly, and talked to the commodore's wife about hull rot until the woman was laughing.

At eight-thirty, the commodore tapped his glass.

"Friends," he said. "It's my pleasure to name this year's Man of the Year."

Applause.

Dixon stood and took the plaque, and it was a good performance, humble and a little teary.

He thanked the club.

He thanked "my beautiful wife, who is carrying our miracle."

He thanked our mother.

Then my mother stood.

"If I may," she said, in her flower committee voice. "There's a family matter that has hurt this town, and I'd like it healed tonight."

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