Chapter 17: Roberta's Table

The Lakeshore Club had a ballroom with chandeliers, round tables, and a hundred and twenty people in good clothes.

I walked in at seven in the green dress, with a wire taped under my left arm and a small speaker cue in my clutch.

Colin met me at the door. I had texted him that morning: I was wrong about Thursday. I'm sorry. Let me come tonight.

He kissed my cheek, and his lips were dry.

"I knew you'd come around," he said. "Mother will be so pleased."

"I want to make it up to her."

"You look lovely, Pam." He squeezed my arm, and I felt nothing but the pressure of a hand. "Come on."

Table one stood at the head of the room, under the biggest chandelier.

Roberta Fairweather rose from her seat in pearls and navy silk, with her silver bob freshly set.

"Pamela, darling. Here you are." She kissed the air by my ear. "I was so worried."

"I'm sorry, Roberta. I haven't been well."

"No, of course you haven't." Her smile was tight and kind. "This is a friend of the family."

The man beside her was fifty, with a leather bag under his chair and a face made of reassurance.

"Pamela," he said. "I've heard so much."

I shook his hand.

I did not look at table six.

Quincy sat there with the board chair and her husband. He wore his charcoal suit and, for the first time in public, no gloves.

He was ten feet away. He was drinking water, and he was watching the ice in the glass.

Dinner came in courses, and I ate only what the whole table ate.

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