Chapter 22: The Long Table

The members' dinner on Saturday was held on the clubhouse terrace under strings of white lights.

One long table ran the whole length of it.

Nobody had arranged it by rank.

Birdie had drawn the seating herself, on the back of a tee sheet, and she had put the groundskeepers at the head.

The woman with the crew cut sat in the center chair in her best flannel shirt, looking like she wanted to leave.

Beside her sat a man who had mown the sixth fairway since the year my father was fired.

On her other side, the old member with the watch had taken a plate of pimento cheese and was telling her about his late wife.

I sat three seats down with Ramsay on my left and Zara across from me.

Zara had come in a plain blue dress and sat with her hands in her lap.

Every person who passed her chair said something small and kind.

She flinched at each one.

Ramsay passed me the bread.

His thumb brushed my knuckles on purpose, and I felt it all the way to my knees.

"Stop it," I said under my breath.

"Stop what?"

"You know what."

"I'm being polite," he said gravely. "Pass the bread."

Then the terrace doors opened at the far end, and the clink of glasses went quiet.

Stanford Lorring walked in alone.

He wore his navy blazer, freshly pressed, and he had shaved, and he carried himself.

The terrace turned to look.

"Good evening," he said, pleasantly. "I understand I'm still on the member rolls, and I've paid for my plate."

"Sit down, Stanford," the white-haired woman said from the middle of the table. "We're eating."

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