You look terribly pale.”

“Where’s the spousal waiver Julian filed on Monday?” I asked.

“Julian handles our filings,” Eleanor said, her fingers tightening around her evening bag.

“And you’re distracting our guests.”

By seven forty-five, the air in the main hall was thick with cigar smoke and heavy perfume.

I walked down the terrace hallway toward the coat check, the carpet muffling my steps, until I saw Julian standing beside the tall marble urns.

He was with two senior directors from the regional health board, turning an empty whiskey tumbler in his right hand.