I arrived at the winter benefit with a cane, tinted glasses, and no signature pen.
The ballroom was full. Donors stood beneath the restored ceiling, drinking wine and admiring the east-wing display. The event had been planned before the board's review, and the hotel had already printed programs announcing Northline's investment.
The announcement was not a promise. It was an aspiration. I knew the difference. So did the people who had come to put their names on the project.
Graham greeted guests at the entrance. He wore his dark suit and the polished smile he used when the room needed to believe everything was under control.
He saw me and crossed the room.
"You came," he said.
"I'm a trustee."
"I thought you might be tired."
"I am."
He looked toward the stage. "There are papers in
