I felt like a smudge in the corner of a magazine spread.
Mia waved at him. He lifted his glass toward us as though he’d been waiting all evening.
My daughter wriggled free and sprinted across the patio as if launched from a slingshot. Her little yellow dress flashed between Harold’s guests; I heard someone laugh and another person clear their throat.
“Mia, honey, come back here, please!”
I hurried after her around a cocktail table, apologizing to a woman in cream silk whose champagne I had nearly knocked over.
Mia waved at him.
“I’m so sorry. She’s just excited.”
The woman smiled, though it wasn’t really a smile.
Harold appeared from nowhere, laughing, and lifted Mia beneath her arms as if she weighed nothing.
“Gotcha, wild thing,” he said, smiling.
“Harold, I’m so sorry. I’ll take her,” I said, rushing toward them.
