Fifteen Years After My Father Changed the Locks, He Seated Me at Table Twenty-Two
I walked into the main ballroom, where sixty-five-dollar bottles of Pinot Noir lined the heavy oak sideboards beneath the chandeliers.
I walked past table one to table twenty-two near the swinging kitchen doors and sat down on the plain wooden chair.
The white tablecloth was bare except for a paper salt shaker and a paper napkin.
Across the ballroom, Gerald stood by table one pouring Bordeaux into crystal stemware for six local business leaders.
“Sixty-five dollars a bottle,” Gerald shouted over the quiet string quartet playing near the stage.
“I paid for the vintage myself to match the custom floral arrangements,” he boasted, gesturing toward the brass chandeliers.
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