Chapter 27: The Luncheon

"Four hospitals," I said. "I've got six trucks."

"You had six trucks for thirty-one babies," the CEO said. "Buy more."

Behind me, my oldest mover said a word you don't say on courthouse steps.

The CEO pretended not to hear.

"One more thing. The foundation's winter luncheon is Thursday. The board voted to honor the NICU move."

"The board Opaline chairs."

"The board Opaline chaired," he said. "They're voting on that Thursday too. Before the salad."

The luncheon was at the club.

Old brick, white columns, and Opaline's name on a brass plaque by the door, for twenty years of service.

I wore my mother's pearls and a red dress Wilma made me buy.

"You're the honoree," she said. "You don't get to wear a work shirt to your own honor."

"You're wearing a work jacket."

"I'm not the honoree."

I brought my whole crew.

The club had never seen six movers in red shirts at a white tablecloth. The waiters kept bringing them more rolls.

Jubal came in a suit that finally fit. He'd bought it himself.

"No trucks on the tie," I said.

"Bug said I had to dress like a grown-up today. She's very disappointed in me."

Two hundred women in spring colors filled the ballroom.

Half of them had stood in Brantley's front hall the night my crew carried out the sofa.

They looked at my pearls now. Then they looked at the head table.

Opaline was already sitting at it.

Pale pink tweed. Her own pearls. Her place card in the middle, where it had been for twenty years.

She had come anyway.

At twelve fifteen, she stood and tapped her water glass with a spoon.

"Ladies," she said. "Before we begin, I'll address the gossip once."

The room went still.

"My son is fighting false charges brought by a bitter ex-wife. I have done nothing but stand by my family."

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