Chapter 18: Founders Dinner

The Founders Dinner filled the grand ballroom of the Wicklow Hotel, and every seat was taken.

Three hundred guests in black tie sat under chandeliers, and a long table at the head of the room held the board.

Rhett sat at the middle of it, in the chair that had always been Damian's.

Beatrice walked in first, on Kent's arm, in silver, with her chin high.

I went second, in a dark blue gown she had bought me that afternoon, and I felt every pair of eyes find the hem of it.

Damian came last.

He came through the doors alone, on a black cane, in a tuxedo that hung a little loose on him.

The whole ballroom went silent.

A fork rang against a plate and was snatched up.

He took the first step slowly, and the second, and then he walked down the long carpet between the tables, with his gray eyes on the head table.

Nobody spoke.

Somebody at the back stood up, and then a table stood, and then a hundred people were on their feet.

I walked beside him with my hand just not touching his elbow.

You're doing it, I thought.

I'm doing it, he thought back. Don't let me look at you, or I'll fall over.

Rhett was smiling when we reached the table.

It was a lovely smile, wide and moved.

"Damian," he said, standing. "Cousin. This is a miracle."

"Rhett," Damian said.

"Please. Sit. We saved your place."

"I'll stand."

The old director with the white eyebrows lifted his cane an inch from the floor, a salute.

Rhett picked up his glass and turned to the room.

"Friends," he said. "Directors. Tonight I thought I'd be giving a very different speech."

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