The gala was on Saturday night, and I went.
I went because David asked me to. He called me on Friday, the day after the vote, and he sounded tired and strange, and he said, "Come with me. Please. Whatever happens, I want you there."
I should have asked him what had happened at the meeting. I should have asked him how his mother had voted. But I did not, because I did not want to hear the answer over the phone, and because I still had one small hope that I was wrong about everything, and I was not ready to let it go.
The gala was held at the Harborstone Museum, a white marble building on the waterfront with a rotunda that had been modeled on a temple in a country I had never visited. Four hundred people were there, in black tie and evening gowns, and the champagne was poured from bottles
