Chapter 7: The Guest Book

I called my landlord at eight on Saturday morning, before I went anywhere near the club.

"Yes, your boyfriend phoned," he said. "Said you were moving out, and he'd keep the place."

"The lease is in my name."

"That's what I told him. He said that could be fixed."

"It can't."

"No, it can't," my landlord said. "I only wanted you to know the man is very persuasive."

I thanked him and hung up and stood in my kitchen, looking at the fridge.

There was a clean rectangle on the white door where the Vegas magnet had hung in my apartment for three years.

I had not told anyone it was gone.

I had told myself it was a coincidence.

At ten I drove to the Pennell Country Club with a clipboard and a tape measure.

The ballroom was enormous.

It had gold chairs and long windows, and a stage at one end for the band.

I walked it end to end, and counted twenty round tables in my head.

"Miss Corliss."

Mr. Pennell had a voice made for telling people where to park.

He was in his sixties, silver-haired, in a quarter-zip vest with a club crest, and he did not offer me his hand.

"You're the florist."

"I'm the florist."

"My daughter says you're the best in the city." He looked me over from my boots to my hair.

"I wanted someone else. She insisted. I don't argue with my daughter before a wedding."

"I understand."

"I'm told you were also with the groom."

"Was," I said. "Past tense, sir. Four years."

Something flickered in his face.

I thought it was embarrassment, but it was closer to calculation.

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