Fifteen Years After My Father Changed the Locks, He Seated Me at Table Twenty-Two
She turned her back on Gerald and walked back toward the ballroom archway with me, her satin heels clicking steadily on the polished oak floorboards.
Gerald took one step forward, but his leather sole caught on the edge of the rubber floor mat.
“Clare!” he yelled into the quiet hallway.
Neither of us turned around.
Howard, the venue manager, stepped out of the office door behind the coat check, holding a black leather clipboard in his left hand.
Gerald retreated into the main ballroom, his shoulders stiff as he marched toward table one, where six of his biggest insurance clients sat in uncomfortable silence.
Arthur Vance, David’s father, was waiting beside Gerald’s armchair.
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