The mayor was looking at his shoes.
Tracy had not let go of my arm.
She stepped forward, and her voice was steady.
“Hilary doesn’t need your check, Jeanette.”
Jeanette turned her head, slowly.
“And you,” she said, “are not family either.”
“You’re a woman who borrowed from my son for years.”
“Neal carried you, Tracy.”
“Everybody knew.”
“That little rental on Perkins, the dented car.”
“I always thought it was rather sad.”
“Hilary,” said Becky, in a kind, ringing voice, “you really should choose your friends better.”
Tracy said nothing.
She stood with her chin up and her hands at her sides, and I saw her mouth tremble once.
And I understood, in a way I couldn’t explain, that she was waiting.
At the front of the room, a woman in a navy suit tapped the microphone.
She was sixty, with silver hair and rimless glasses, and a badge on her lapel that said PAMELA NORTHCOTT, PRESIDENT AND CEO.
