I wasn’t starting from nothing.
For years, Terrence had talked to me about his work at the dinner table.
I had listened.
Asked questions.
Remembered details.
Apparently, I had learned more than either of us realized.
For six months, I worked.
And waited.
Then the invitation arrived.
The Washington Family Charitable Foundation held an annual gala every spring.
Society photographs.
Expensive flowers.
Donors.
Champagne.
All the usual performance of inherited wealth appearing publicly generous.
I had attended twice as Terrence’s wife.
Both times, Eleanor had subtly guided what I wore.
How I behaved.
Who I spoke to.
The invitation probably arrived because nobody had removed my name from the mailing list.
Or maybe someone deliberately left it there.
Either way, I accepted.
Then I called the stylist Terrence used for formal events.
“I need a dress.”
“For what?”
“A room full of people who expect me to arrive with nothing.”
She paused.
“I understand.”
The dress was emerald.
A color I had never worn.
Simple from a distance.
Perfectly constructed up close.
Terrence’s diamonds were around my neck and in my ears.
My wedding band, which I had eventually moved to my right hand, remained with me.
Marcus suggested the Maybach.
“They’ll watch the entrance,” he said.
“I know.”
“What you arrive in will say something before you do.”
“What should it say?”
He waited.
I thought about the rain.
The suitcase.
The laughter.
“Nothing threatening.”
I smiled faintly.
“Just the truth.”
The gala doors opened at seven.
I arrived at 7:20.
Late enough to be noticed.
