Chapter 17: Mrs. Declan Hargrove

The ballroom of the Harborview Hotel in Boston held sixty people at round tables.

Every one of them turned when the doors opened.

Declan wore black tie.

I wore the green dress Dot had made me buy in Portland, and the steel ring on my left hand.

"Last chance," he said, low. "We can turn around."

"I made a rule. Nobody hears about this."

"Steph."

"I'm breaking it."

I took his arm and walked in.

A man at the door with a guest list looked up, and his pen stopped.

"Mrs. Hargrove," I said. "Mrs. Declan Hargrove. I believe I'm expected."

He did not need to check the list.

The whisper went across the room faster than we walked.

Margaret sat at the head table in pearl gray, with a glass of white wine and a director on each side of her.

She did not stand.

"Declan," she said, warmly, in front of everyone. "And Stephanie. How lovely you could come."

"Mother."

"Please. Sit with the family."

There were two empty chairs beside her.

I looked at them, and I did not sit.

"Thank you, no," I said. "I'll stand."

The chatter died by degrees.

At the next table, a white-haired man lowered his napkin.

Declan had told me in the car who he was.

He was the chairman of the fleet company that Margaret was merging with tonight.

His daughter sat beside him, a sensible woman of about thirty.

She was not looking at Declan at all, because she was looking at me.

Margaret lifted her glass.

"Friends," she said. "Before the toasts, I should clear the air, since I know there's been talk."

She waited for the room.

"My son has been unwell. He has formed an attachment, and I won't pretend it doesn't pain me."

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