By six thirty, the chandelier light in the grand ballroom of the Oak Creek Country Club was glittering off three hundred crystal wine glasses.

I stood near the registration arch, pressing velvet donor badges onto the brass pins lined up across the felt board.

My lower back ached with a dull, steady pull, but Eleanor stayed three inches from me, her hand hovering over my elbow whenever a board member came near.

“She’s doing remarkably well, considering how tired she is,” Eleanor told Arthur Gable, the foundation treasurer, pressing her palm gently against my forearm.

“Julian insists she rest completely, so we’ve taken her off the accounting schedules for the season.”