Chapter 6: Eight Minutes Early

"I'll see you Saturday," I told Leander on the porch. "I'll be early."

I was eight minutes early.

I had checked Orin's dashboard clock twice, and then Maeve's watch, which she had buckled onto my wrist before her shift.

"Rules are rules," she had said. "Use mine."

The Prescott Foundation harvest gala was in the ballroom of the Harbor Grand, one of Leander's own hotels.

Orin pulled the truck under the awning between two black cars and cut the engine.

He had borrowed a charcoal suit from a cousin, and the sleeves stopped an inch above his wrists.

"I look like a bouncer," he said.

"You look like a man who owns a boat."

"I own a boat."

"Then you look accurate."

He got out and came around to open my door.

He offered me his arm and did not look sorry about it.

I wore a navy maternity dress Maeve had begged off a coworker, and my hair pinned up with her tortoiseshell clip.

My feet were swollen.

My blood pressure was probably awful.

"Last chance to turn around," Orin said at the ballroom doors.

"No."

"Then I'm here."

"Stay here," I said. "It's the only place I'm sure nobody will move you."

He nodded, and took up a spot beside the coat check with his hands clasped in front of him.

I went in alone.

Four hundred people in black and silver sat at round tables with candles on them.

A string quartet played something slow.

Above the stage hung a huge screen, and on it, in soft gold, was a family photograph.

Eleanor Prescott stood at the microphone in a dark wool suit and pearls.

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