Chapter 7: The Ripped Tuxedo

Imogen Sutherland had planned for every disaster at her company's anniversary dinner.

She had not planned for the one that walked in at 7:42 in a torn tuxedo.

Both knees were gone.

One sleeve had been cut off at the elbow with scissors.

The cap on his head was backward, with a bow tie clipped to it.

She stood at the top of the ballroom steps and watched three hundred guests turn around.

The chairman of her board, an old man who always checked his watch, stopped beside her.

"Imogen," he said. "Is that your husband?"

"Yes."

"His trousers have been attacked."

"They arrived that way," Imogen said. "I ordered the rips."

The chairman stared.

"I told the tailor to expect him," she said.

"The knees are lined with black silk. Whatever he tears, nothing shows through but fabric."

It was the truth. She had made the call on Tuesday, after the pumpkin.

Griffin came across the floor toward her with his hands in his pockets.

From across the room he looked ridiculous.

From six feet away he looked like something else.

She had told herself she would not look at him.

She had told herself so for nine days, and she was very good at keeping her word.

"You look nice," Griffin said, and seemed to regret it. "For a ballroom."

"You look as expected."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's a forecast."

He lifted his glass off a passing tray, tasted it, and made a face loud enough to carry.

"This is hot grape juice."

A donor two tables away, who had given the company four million dollars, set down his own glass.

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