Chapter 23: The Tarrant Party

The banner over the Harbor ballroom doors said TARRANT SUPPLY, FIFTY YEARS, in gold letters four feet high.

My father had paid for none of it.

He stood under it in a new suit with his hands behind his back, reading the words over and over.

"Fifty years," he said. "Your grandfather started it with one truck."

"I know, Dad."

"He'd never believe this room."

"He'd believe it. He'd just want a discount on the chairs."

My father laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes.

The party had two hundred guests, and I had counted them myself.

Every customer who had called to cancel when the video went up was there, because every one of them had also called back.

The linen buyers from three hotel chains were there, and the cooks from the kitchens, and the drivers who had worked for my father for twenty years.

Bea was there in a green dress and sneakers, pouring champagne for anyone who stood still.

The band was playing, a real band, and the ballroom floor was full.

At the bar stood a man in a white shirt and black vest with a tray.

He was thinner than the last time I had seen him, and his hair had been cut short.

Brooks saw me and came over without being called.

"Ms. Tarrant," he said.

"Brooks."

"Your father's table has a bottle of the Tarrant label. I'd like to pour the first glass, if that's all right."

I looked at the tray.

I had said yes to his father, in the end.

Eight dollars an hour, tips pooled, a job at the Harbor Hotel bar under a manager who had never heard his last name.

It was the first work he had ever done.

"Go ahead," I said.

He crossed the floor to my father's table and poured, and his hands did not shake.

My father held up his glass, and said, "Thank you, son."

Brooks went red to the ears.

He said, "Thank you, sir," and went back to the bar.

Sierra was not there.

She had sent a card, three days before, with no return address.

It said only: I'm sorry. I'm going somewhere I can't hurt anyone. Take care of yourself.

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