Chapter 9: Tea

The Narragansett Club smelled of beeswax and old money.

I walked into its tea room on Wednesday at four.

I wore a navy dress of my mother's, with my curls pinned flat and my phone in my breast pocket.

I had pressed record in the elevator.

Nobody had told me to.

I had simply learned something about the Wexlers on Saturday, and the lesson was to bring a witness that couldn't be bullied.

There were maybe thirty women in the room, in pastel suits, eating cucumber sandwiches off tiered stands.

Every head turned as I came in.

Cecily Wexler sat alone at a corner table by the window in a dove-grey suit.

Her pearls and her chignon were exactly as they had been in the church.

She did not stand.

"Etta," she said. "How good of you to come. Sit."

I sat.

A waiter poured tea into two cups so thin the light came through them.

Cecily waited until he had gone, then folded her hands.

"I'll be direct, because I think we are both women who prefer it."

"Please."

"What happened on Saturday was a very painful misunderstanding."

"Faye has been dealt with."

"She will not be in Providence by the end of the month, and she will not work in this state again."

She said it.

"Preston has been instructed to apologize. He will do so, sincerely, in person."

"Instructed."

"He is a good boy and he follows direction."

I almost laughed.

"In return," Cecily said, "the Arts Hall contract is reinstated and your name is restored."

"And I think a quieter wedding in October would be very agreeable to all parties."

She slid a cream envelope across the white linen.

I knew what was in it before I touched it.

A cheque, written in a firm hand, for fifty thousand dollars.

"For your trouble," Cecily said. "And your discretion."

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