Chapter 11: The Gala

The Lakeside Gala was held in the ballroom of an old downtown hotel, under chandeliers that had survived a hundred years of better people.

Three hundred guests stood in black tie, holding champagne and speaking in the low, pleased voices of the already rich.

I wore Gran's emerald-green dress, taken in at the waist, and my father's watch.

Amory wore the rented tuxedo.

He had not said a word since the car, and his hand in mine was cold.

"Smile," I said.

"I'm smiling."

"You're showing teeth. It's different."

Maribeth found us before we reached the bar.

She wore silver this time, with pearls the size of marbles, and she kissed the air beside my cheek.

"Sweetheart, you came! And this is the husband. How adorable. Did the rental shop do his hair?"

"My wife did it," Amory said.

Maribeth's smile didn't crack, but her eyes made a little calculation.

"We're all family tonight," she said.

"Let me introduce you to the Alcotts."

She steered us across the room, past waiters, past a string quartet, to a silver-haired man with a face.

Trent Alcott's father looked at me with the courtesy of a bank looking at a small deposit.

"The paralegal," he said.

"Our paralegal, unfortunately, is unemployed," I said, "thanks to your line of credit."

Maribeth squeezed my arm hard enough to bruise.

Across the room I saw Todhunter.

He was working the crowd with both hands, laughing, remembering names, touching an elbow here and a shoulder there.

Once, his eyes met mine, and he raised his glass an inch.

Then the lights dimmed, and a spotlight found the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Trent's father said into the microphone.

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