Chapter 9: The Gala

The invitation came by certified mail, in a cream envelope with my name written out by hand.

Nina Haldorsen, Founding Shareholder.

It was signed by the board chair, with a note under her signature: "You should be in the room. Seven o'clock, black tie."

Carissa had handled the guest list for three years. She had left my name off it for two of them.

Somebody had put it back.

The subpoena for my triage notes had been on Marit's kitchen table for weeks.

Our lawyer had answered it with four boxes of charts. Every Level Two I ever wrote had been confirmed by the doctor who saw the patient.

Wyatt still meant to call me a woman who scores everything too high.

At the gala I would not argue triage with him. I would give the room one of my scores and let them check it.

I wore the blue dress, the one Wyatt had said was too bold for a company event.

Marit pinned my hair up in her kitchen with a handful of bobby pins and a mouthful of opinions.

"You look like a woman who owns thirty percent," she said.

"I look like a nurse in a dress."

"That too."

She wore her good navy suit and carried a small clutch purse with butter mints in it.

She would not be talked out of coming.

"I'll sit in the back," she said. "I'll watch his face."

The Haldorsen Freight spring gala was held in the ballroom of the big downtown hotel, under three chandeliers.

Three hundred people were already there, holding champagne and wearing name tags.

I walked in with my aunt on my arm.

Heads turned. Then they turned back, carefully.

Wyatt stood at the head of the room beside a podium, in a black tuxedo, shaking hands.

Carissa was at his shoulder in a cream gown with her hair down.

She was holding his program. She was holding his pen.

She saw me and her smile slipped and caught again.

Jonas was across the room by the silent auction tables. St. Anne's was the evening's charity.

He wore a dark suit and no tie.

He did not come over. We had a clause.

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