I found him across the room at table one, naturally. Silver hair swept back, Brioni suit, laughing with a thick-necked man I didn’t recognize. Margaret stood beside him in a red dress, pearl necklace resting against her collarbone, one hand on Gerald’s arm like she was anchoring a flag to a pole. I remembered what Margaret once told our neighbor, Mrs. Foley, at a Fourth of July cookout. Clare had repeated it to me in a midnight phone call.
“Evelyn couldn’t handle the real world, so she ran away to play soldier.”
I took a glass of pinot noir from a passing tray and found my table. Table 22, last one, by the kitchen door. My place card didn’t read Evelyn Ulette. It read Guest of the Bride. Table one had white roses and orchids. Table 22 had silk flowers, not even good silk. The bartender, a kid in his 20s with kind eyes, caught me standing alone and poured a generous glass.
“Whoever put you at table 22 doesn’t know what they’re missing,” he said.
I almost laughed.
