Chapter 8: The Board Dinner

Neal held the investor dinner on Thursday, in a private room at the Hartford Club.

There were nine of us at one long table under a chandelier.

Six of the guests were Weldon Harbor's biggest clients, in good jackets and anxious smiles.

Calvin sat at the foot, because Coleman Lane's counsel always did.

My mother sat across from me, and Lindy sat beside Neal in the emerald silk.

I had asked for the room to be set exactly that way.

Neal rose before the soup and told them that Coleman Lane would cover every redemption in full.

The room breathed out.

An older man at my left squeezed my wrist and called me the savior of Connecticut.

"I'm only a silent partner," I said.

"Then be silent a little louder," he said, and everyone laughed.

I lifted my wineglass to join the toast.

I did it without thinking, the way I always had, with the stem pinched between two fingers and the bowl resting against my palm.

My grandmother taught me that when I was seven.

She said a lady holds her glass like it might change its mind.

Nobody at the table noticed.

Except Lindy, whose own glass stopped halfway to her mouth.

She stared at my hand.

She stared at it for the whole length of the toast, and the color drained out of her face.

"Lindy?" said Neal. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," she said. "Fine."

She drank.

She drank the whole glass, and held it out to the waiter for more.

I made myself eat my salad.

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