Chapter 8: Fifty-One Percent

My mother set a third bowl of soup in front of Elias Cushing without asking if he wanted it.

"Eat," Enid said. "You look like a man who lives on coffee and board meetings."

"I do," Elias said, and picked up his spoon.

"Are you married?"

"Mom," I said.

"I'm asking for the soup's sake," Enid said. "It's a good soup. I don't give it to just anyone."

"Divorced," Elias said. "Six years. It was polite."

"That's the worst kind."

"It is, actually."

I almost laughed, and it surprised me.

It was dark outside the kitchen window now.

At the Saltmarsh House gala, my team would be seating three hundred guests without me.

I had told myself I would not check my phone.

I checked it twice.

Headlights swung across the cottage wall.

Enid put down her ladle. "That's an Ellery car."

I stood up.

Langston was on the porch before I reached the door, in his tuxedo, with the bow tie hanging open.

He had been crying, or close to it.

"Flora."

"Langston."

"I left the gala. I told Lydia to deal with it." His voice was rough. "I need you to come back with me. Just for the photos. An hour."

"No."

"Mother is furious. The reporters will print whatever she tells them. If you stand beside me for one picture, it all becomes a misunderstanding."

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