Chapter 6: The Club

At six-fifty on Saturday night, Glenn came down the laundromat stairs in a charcoal suit.

I stopped on the sidewalk with my keys in my hand.

I will say it plainly.

He wore the tailored suit with effortless elegance.

The shoulders sat perfectly, the cuffs showed exactly a half inch, and the tie was the color of the sea on a cloudy day.

"Your cousin has good taste," I said.

"My cousin is very particular."

"He's also your exact size."

"Family trait," Glenn said, and straightened his tie with a faint, guilty look.

I wore the one good black dress I owned.

It was a plain wrap, cut low at the neck, and Glenn looked at the neckline for three full seconds before he remembered his manners.

"We're going to be late," I said.

"Say it again."

"Late."

"No. Say we."

I laughed, and took his arm, and we caught the 14 to the Fawcett Country Club.

It sat on a hill over the river, with a white portico and a lawn that looked ironed.

Valets in vests stood out front.

A line of black cars let out women in sequins and men who all had the same haircut.

We got off the bus at the gate and walked up the long drive.

I heard the whispering start before we reached the door.

"Is that her?"

"That's the secretary."

"Who's the man in the gray suit?"

"Why did they come on a bus?"

One of Colin's fraternity brothers, drink in hand, stepped out to block the stairs.

He eyed Glenn up and down.

"Staff entrance is around the side, buddy," he said.

"I'm her husband," Glenn said.

The man stared.

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