The gala takes place in the Tanglewood Country Club, a place that charges enough money to its members that the carpet shouldn’t look quite as shabby as it does. It’s a place with more clout than taste, which probably says more about the historical society than they think.
I can hear the gentle hum of voices and clink of glasses from down the hallway. The suited security guard makes me wait while he searches a printed guest list, which I’m not on. Do they really have a problem with party crashers hungry for dry quiche and dry conversation? Maybe it’s been too long since we moved in wealthy circles, because my hands start to sweat. I don’t belong here, at least not in spirit, and even this random stranger knows it.
Only when he uses his phone to check his e-mail does he find my late additi
