Chapter 14: The Gala

Cecily Wexler walked to the lectern at eight forty-one in a column of midnight silk, with her pearls at her throat.

Three hundred people put down their forks.

I stood in the wings with my hand on the curtain and watched her adjust the microphone.

She did not need to.

She had a voice that carried without trying.

"Friends," Cecily said. "Patrons. Thank you for the generosity that keeps the Providence Arts Hall alive."

Applause.

"It is the hardest thing I have ever done," she went on, "to stand before you tonight with a heavy heart."

She let the silence breathe.

In the front row sat Preston, in a perfect tuxedo, with a look of grave suffering rehearsed for the cameras.

Faye was not at his table.

Somewhere behind the kitchen, I hoped, someone was making her carry plates.

"Many of you have heard rumors about my son's wedding," Cecily said.

"Many of you have seen a certain video."

"I will not name the young woman who made her choices in front of two hundred and forty guests."

A rustle went through the room.

"But a chair has a duty to her board. Tonight I am obliged to tell you what we learned only this week."

She turned her head slowly toward the stage-left curtain, where I stood.

"The woman who tuned our Steinway this afternoon, Miss Etta Spalding, is not free to marry anyone."

"She has been married for seven years, in secret, to a man named Ambrose Keene."

The gasp was real.

Three hundred heads swiveled, and I heard a woman at table two say, "That's bigamy."

Cecily's mouth curved.

"Mr. Keene is in this room tonight, at table nine. His company is a sponsor of this very gala."

She looked down the long room, over all the heads, to the back wall.

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