Chapter 11: A Toast

Table Nine had a wobbly leg, a centerpiece of dried wheat, and a view of the kitchen door swinging open and shut.

Bridie dropped into the chair next to mine with her glasses crooked.

"They wouldn't let me sit with Maisie," she said. "I'm a plus-one for a plus-one."

"You're doing great."

"I'm sweating through my good blouse."

Founders Hall had a ceiling painted with gold stars and long tables set with real silver.

Two hundred people sat under it, murmuring.

At the head table, on a low platform, Lionel Hargrove sat in the center in a black suit.

Maisie sat on his right with her curls pinned flat and her hands folded.

On his left sat Nate.

He looked beautiful and wrecked, in a dark suit I'd never seen, with his hand under the tablecloth so no one could see the ring.

Beside Nate sat a tall, pale woman in a pale blue dress.

She had the stiff, smiling face of someone at her own funeral.

"The Chancellor's daughter," Bridie whispered. "I looked her up. Her name's on the program. She plays the cello."

"She looks like she's being held hostage."

"Maybe she is."

The woman leaned toward Nate and said something very quietly.

He shook his head.

She shut her eyes, briefly, with relief.

Then she looked up and saw me across the room, in a green dress, with a ring on my hand.

I couldn't hear what she said next.

But I saw her lips shape two words to Nate: "That's her."

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