He did not nod back.

He set his glass down on the white linen without drinking and looked down at his signet ring.

David Vance stepped through the crowd to hand me a glass of iced water.

“Clare is outside on the terrace,” he said in his low, direct tone.

“She wants five minutes away from the noise.”

I took the glass and walked through the heavy double doors at the back of the ballroom.

The June night air was mild and smelled of freshly cut grass from the ninth fairway.