The invitation was formal, heavy cream stock delivered by courier to the Berkeley house. A dinner at the Harrington mansion in Pacific Heights, “to celebrate the commencement of construction.” It was a command performance, and the subtext was clear: their new, unproven firm was on display.
Evelyn stared at the invitation on the plywood counter that served as their kitchen island. The thought of an evening of polite scrutiny, of making conversation while her body felt increasingly like a foreign, demanding tenant, made her tired bones ache. “I can’t wear any of my old dresses,” she said, the statement encompassing a world of change.
Liam, who was attempting to install a drawer pull backwards, glanced up. “So we’ll buy a new one. A better one.”
“We have a construction loan the size of a m
