Chapter 18: The Founders' Gala

Dad wore the suit from Mom's funeral, and it still fit as long as he didn't breathe in.

He parked the truck himself, then handed the keys to the valet anyway, because it was a gala.

The valet read the side of the door: Tanner Plumbing, 24 Hours, Backed-Up Drains.

He drove it around the back of the club and left it beside the dumpsters.

"Good," Dad said, watching it go. "I'll know where it is."

At the coat check a girl in a black vest held out her hand for my tote.

"Ma'am, we hold bags this size in the cloakroom."

"It stays with me," I said.

"It's a very large bag."

"It has my receipts in it."

She looked at the green canvas, the Tanner Plumbing logo half washed out, and at the little silk clutches on the rack behind her.

Each clutch had its own numbered ticket.

"I'll make an exception," she said.

Inside, the ballroom had filled with two hundred people in good clothes, under a chandelier hung with white roses.

Every woman I passed carried something that had cost more than my car.

Dad stopped inside the door and looked at the ceiling.

"Hell of a light fixture," he said.

A man in a tuxedo checked his list and walked us to the far side of the room.

Table twelve stood against the wall by the kitchen door, as far from the stage as the room allowed.

It had a white cloth and twelve gold chairs.

"How many of those are ours?" Dad said.

"Two," I said. "Ten are empty. Nobody has to give up a seat."

He sat down slowly, with one hand on the small of his back.

"Your mother would have loved this."

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