Chapter 4: The Ring

The Lakeshore Club had been serving Sunday brunch to my family since 1961, and on Monday it was serving it to my husband's mistress.

I knew because Nadine had called the club manager at eight, in the voice she uses on printers.

"She booked the Founders Room," Nadine said, hanging up.

"Twenty women. Gaines Hospitality Women in Leadership. The club's own website has a photo of her hand."

"Of course it is."

"Do you want me to come?"

"I want you to wait in the car with the engine running."

"Better. Violence and a getaway."

I wore the black turtleneck, the trousers, and my father's old brass club pin on my lapel.

I had never worn it.

Winslow was parked behind us in a gray SUV he insisted on, and he didn't get out.

He watched me walk through the revolving door and kept his hands on the wheel.

The doorman straightened.

"Miss Sorrell. Welcome back, miss. It's been, what, eight years?"

"Nine. How's your knee?"

"Worse than the Bears, miss."

The Founders Room had a ceiling painted with cranes, a fireplace large enough to roast a horse, and twenty women in pastel suits eating eggs.

My great-grandfather's portrait hung over the mantel.

Jocelyn sat at the head table in a cream blazer, with a mimosa and the whole room attentive to her.

"What I tell my team," she was saying in her cooing voice, "is that a woman's greatest asset is her instinct.

You have to know when it's time to move on."

Applause, scattered and polite.

She lifted her left hand to wave it, and the ruby flashed.

I walked the length of the room.

The conversation died at about the third table.

By the sixth, forks had stopped.

"Rhiannon." Jocelyn's smile slid sideways. "This is a private event."

"Not quite."

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