About a week had passed when I attended a small fund-raiser for the local women’s shelter. I always get invited to these things because I can never say no when someone asks for a donation to a worthy cause. I usually hate these events but they’re a necessary part of life if you want a good reputation within the community. This one was almost mandatory. My accountant, Rachel Silverman, was chair of the fund-raising committee.
I stood there, drink in hand, listening to two women discuss the merits of having cocktail parties like this. The argument was old: “Why encourage people to drink?” vs “Money flows easier with a little lubricant.” It was an argument that would never fade.
“Shelly,” came a voice over my shoulder. I didn’t have to turn to know it was Rachel. “How are you doing?” she as
