Chapter 24: Twenty-Two Steps

A year later, on the nineteenth of December, I stood at the top of the grand staircase.

I had a glass of champagne in my hand.

The same tree rose through the ballroom, hung with the same white lights.

Two hundred guests in black tie stood below, and nobody was watching me.

I was glad of that.

My dress was dark green velvet, and it fit. My hands were warm.

On my left hand, on the third finger, was a thin gold band with a small garnet.

"Mrs. Lang," said a voice at my elbow, with great innocence.

"Don't."

"Ms. Washburn," Joan corrected herself.

She wore a black dress and her good glasses.

"The chair of the Foundation. Your speech is in four minutes."

"I know," I said. "I'm not nervous."

"You are." She looked at me, and her voice softened.

"You look like your mother, kid. I never told you that."

I put my arm around her shoulders for a moment.

Below us, at the foot of the stairs, a man in a wheelchair sat with a cane across his knees.

He was telling a donor exactly what he thought of the buffet.

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