Chapter 6 - The Ballroom
The Ashton Gardens Country Club smelled of floor wax, old money, and expensive perfume.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling of the main banquet hall, casting a warm, golden glow over forty women in pastel dresses and three or four thoroughly miserable-looking men sitting near the bar.
I didn't wear pastel.
I walked through the double doors wearing a sharp, tailored black blazer over a charcoal silk blouse, my hair pulled back into a severe knot at the nape of my neck. Under my arm, I carried a single, thick manila folder tied with a black elastic band.
About forty heads turned as I walked across the parquet floor.
Harper sat at the head table, enthroned in a white velvet armchair surrounded by a literal mountain of pastel-wrapped gift bags, silver ribbons, and stuffed animals. She wore a pale pink dress that made her look like a frosted cupcake, her belly swollen and prominent. Chase stood a few yards away near the bar, talking quietly with his father, holding a glass of sparkling cider like it was a shield.
My mother crossed the room the second she saw me, her heels clicking a staccato beat against the wood. Her face was a masterclass in frozen maternal grace, but her eyes were darting nervously.
She stopped dead when she saw the manila folder under my arm. Her hand shot out, her fingers catching the heavy cardstock of my sleeve.
"What is that?" she hissed, her smile remaining fixed for the benefit of the women at table four.
"Paperwork," I said, not slowing my pace.
"Naomi, I swear to God, if you start a scene today—after everything your sister has been through, with the nursery stress and the doctor saying her blood pressure is high—I will never forgive you as long as I live."
"You should have thought about blood pressure before you started forging my signature on loan documents, Mom," I said, my voice so low and steady she had to step closer to hear it.
She blanched, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Before she could recover, the room’s ambient chatter was interrupted by the sharp, metallic ting-ting-ting of a silver spoon striking crystal.
My mother spun around.
Standing by the microphone on the small raised stage was Mrs. Gable, the president of the local garden club and my mother’s closest confidante. She beamed out at the crowd, her hand resting affectionately on Harper’s shoulder.
"Everyone," Mrs. Gable announced into the PA system, her voice carrying across the dining room with bright, church-social cheer. "Before we cut the cake, Margaret has asked me to share a very special announcement regarding the family’s new living arrangements!"
Forty faces turned toward the stage.
May you like
Harper smiled—a radiant, triumphant beam that reached her eyes—and smoothed the front of her pink dress. Chase straightened his jacket from across the room, lifting his glass in a silent, mocking toast in my direction. My mother hurried back to her seat at the head table, her face flushed with premature victory, looking entirely relieved that she wouldn't have to deal with me anymore.
They still thought the room belonged to them.
