Chapter 11: The Imbrie Ball

Nate brought the chessboard over and set it on Frank's knees.

Frank swept the pieces onto the rug with the back of his left hand.

"Okay," Nate said. "Not chess. I'm sorry."

Frank closed his eyes, worn out, and the word was gone for that night.

Leah woke up on the couch and came and knelt by her father's chair.

"Tomorrow, Dad," she said. "We'll get it tomorrow."

They didn't get it the next day, or the next.

On Saturday night Frank wore a tuxedo for the first time in eleven years.

Leah had found it in the back of the closet in Fox Chapel, and Nate had let out the waist.

The Carnegie Music Hall in Oakland was full of gold paint and red velvet and nine hundred people in evening clothes.

The Imbrie Ball was the biggest charity night in Pittsburgh, and his grandfather had hosted it for fifty years.

Every seat at the front table belonged to the chairman.

This year that meant Nate.

He sat in the center with Leah on his left and Frank on his right.

Leah wore a dark green dress her sister had lent her without telling their mother.

She kept tugging at the neckline.

"I feel like a bridesmaid," she whispered.

"You look like the best thing in the room."

"Stop it. I have sawdust in my shoes."

"You do not."

"I always have sawdust in my shoes."

Frank laughed, a short, rough sound, and both of them turned to stare at him.

He hadn't laughed out loud since the stroke.

He tapped the tablecloth twice, very pleased with himself.

Four tables back, at the table Richard had bought, sat Barbara.