Chapter 12: The Gala

Tobin arrived at six on Saturday in a rented tuxedo that was an inch short at the wrists.

My father opened the door and looked him up and down.

"You're the university man."

"Yes, sir. Tobin Seymour."

"What does your father do?"

"He's a welder at a steel yard, sir."

My father's whole face changed.

"Does he do TIG or stick?"

"Both. He says TIG is for people who want to be admired."

My father laughed so hard that my mother came out of the kitchen to see what was wrong with him.

By the time I came down the stairs in my mother's old blue dress, the two of them were discussing flux.

Tobin turned.

He didn't say anything.

He looked at me from the neckline to the hem and back up, slowly, and swallowed.

"You look all right," he said, in a voice that wasn't quite steady.

"All right?"

"I've lost my place. Give me a second."

My mother put her hand over her mouth.

The Sutcliffe house on Elm Street had a light on in every window.

Cars lined the drive, and a man in a black coat took our keys.

Inside, the ballroom was full of the whole town in evening clothes, and a quartet played in the corner.

Tobin put his hand on my waist.

It was rule one, and it was a warm, steady hand, and I felt it through the silk.

"Where are they?" he said.

"Brendan's by the fireplace. Lena's the one in green."

Brendan stood with a glass of club soda and the mayor.

Lena was ten feet from him, near the window, in a green dress that matched her scarf.

They weren't looking at each other.

They were working hard at not looking at each other, and from across the room it was obvious.

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