“Stop hiding,” she said, the words light but edged. “Come meet Tessa’s future mother-in-law. She’s asking about you.”
There was subtext in her tone, well-worn and familiar: Please don’t embarrass us. Please, just this once, be easy.
“I wasn’t hiding,” I murmured, but the protest was pointless. I followed anyway, weaving behind her into the center of the glittering machine.
The knot of women near the dessert table looked like a catalog page: silk. Diamonds. Tastefully subtle cosmetic work. Plates of tiny pastries everyone pretended not to eat. A waiter flitted past with a tray, and my mother snagged another glass.
“This is my other daughter,” she announced.
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