The invitation came on a Thursday.
Not a text. Not a call through his assistant. An actual card cream colored, heavy paper, the kind that had weight to it when you held it. It arrived with Margaret in the morning, passed from Daniel's world into Julia's with the quiet efficiency that had become Margaret's particular specialty.
Julia read it at the kitchen table while Nora ate breakfast.
The Blake Foundation Annual Charity Gala. Friday evening. Your presence would be appreciated.
Handwritten at the bottom in Daniel's particular script precise and slightly compressed, like a man who'd learned to write efficiently and never unlearned it.
Nora too, if she'd like. No pressure either way.
Julia set the card down.
No pressure either way.
She almost laughed.
There was no version of this
