Chapter 17: Table Nine

The Founders' Regatta dinner filled the Harbor Hall to the rafters.

Two hundred people sat at round tables under strings of lanterns.

The race trophies stood in a line along the stage, and a hundred years of Ashworth and Halvorsen hulls hung in photographs on the walls.

Neil walked in at seven with Jude beside him.

He wore a dark jacket cut loose and open, and under it his shirt pulled over the round curve of the baby.

He had never worn anything that showed it.

Conversation stopped at the nearest tables.

Then it started again, louder, and Neil's face burned.

"Eyes front," Jude said quietly. "Keep walking."

"They're staring."

"They're staring at the best-looking man in the room. I'd stare too."

"That's not funny."

"It's a little funny." Jude's hand tightened on his back. "Look at table four."

Neil looked.

The yard foreman had stood up, a big gray man with a napkin in his collar.

He lifted his glass an inch toward Neil and sat down again.

At table six, a woman from the office nodded.

At table seven, two men from the paint shed raised their glasses together.

Nobody said a word, and Neil's eyes stung.

"Told you," Jude said.

They reached the head table.

Winifred sat in the center in a deep green dress, small and upright, with her braid pinned up and the silver-headed cane across her knees.

Britt sat on her left in a borrowed black suit, looking like she wanted to shoot someone.

Ansel stood at the end of the table, shaking hands.

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