I took the chair nearest the door.
The conference room had a long oak table, twelve high-backed chairs, and windows facing the chapel grounds. The board members filed in one by one. I knew some of them by name, others by their checks and photographs in the foundation newsletter.
Helen Shaw sat at the opposite end. She had served as board chair for four years, though my father still spoke as if he owned the room.
My mother came in last.
She carried the narrow folder.
She didn't look at me as she placed it beside her chair.
My father tapped his pen against the table.
"We have two matters," he said. "First, Mara's status as a trustee. Second, the objection to the Madonna exhibit."
Helen lifted a hand. "We'll take them in that order."
My father nodded toward the board secretary, who r
