Chapter 9: Mother's Lunch

Maureen Coughlin chaired the Squirrel Hill Scholarship Luncheon every October, and for twenty years she had never lost a donor.

I walked into the Duquesne Club at noon on Thursday with a check in my handbag and Fran at my elbow.

The dining room had white tablecloths, a string quartet and ninety women in good wool.

Maureen stood at the head table in a plum suit, directing waiters with two fingers.

When she saw me, her face did something fast and complicated.

Then she smiled, because there were ninety witnesses.

"Selah, dear. What a surprise. I didn't know you'd been invited."

"I wasn't. I'm sponsoring the luncheon."

"Are you?"

"Olmstead Freight is."

Several heads turned.

Maureen's smile held, but her fingers tightened on her clipboard.

"How generous. I'm afraid the program is full, but we could find you a place in the kitchen. They're always short of hands."

A small, ugly laugh went around the nearest table.

The old Selah would have gone to the kitchen.

I took a long breath and walked up to the head table, and I opened my handbag.

"Maureen, I came to make a gift," I said. "Would you like to announce it, or shall I?"

"I don't think that's necessary."

"Then I will."

I picked up her microphone from the stand.

She made a grab for it, and Fran moved her whole body between us.

"Good afternoon," I said. "My name is Selah Olmstead."

"Some of you have known me as Colin Coughlin's wife, the girl who does bookkeeping."

The room went silent.

"Olmstead Freight has employed four thousand people in this region since 1964, and I am the Chair of its board."

"Today the Olmstead Foundation is giving this scholarship two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"The gift has one condition," I said. "The fund will be renamed the Night Driver Scholarship."

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