Chapter 7 - The Microphone
I didn't wait for Mrs. Gable to finish her introduction.
I walked down the central aisle between the tables, the sound of my heels hitting the hardwood sounding like measured artillery fire in the hushed room. Heads turned as I passed—some curious, some confused by my black blazer in a sea of spring pastels.
Mrs. Gable blinked as I stepped onto the low wooden stage, my face neutral, my posture straight as a spar.
"Oh," Mrs. Gable said, lowering the mic slightly. "Naomi, dear! Are you coming up to tell everyone yourself? How wonderful! Come right up here..."
She handed me the wireless microphone without thinking, her fingers brushing mine. It was warm from her palm.
I took it, stepped up to the center of the mahogany podium, and looked out over the forty people sitting in front of stacked finger sandwiches and empty champagne flutes.
"Thank you, Mrs. Gable," I said. My voice filled the room, rich and deep through the high-end sound system.
Harper’s smile faltered just a fraction, her brow twitching in sudden uncertainty. Chase took a half-step forward from the bar, his hand dropping from his glass.
"My mother is right," I began, letting my eyes sweep slowly across the room, resting for a long, deliberate second on my mother’s rigid spine at the head table. "There has been a great deal of confusion recently regarding family living arrangements. Specifically regarding my primary residence on Elm Street."
A murmur rippled through the front row—mostly old family friends who had heard my mother’s version of the story three times before breakfast.
"For the record," I continued, lifting the manila folder and placing it flat on the wooden podium, "I did not give my house to my sister. I did not sell my house to my sister. And I did not authorize anyone in this room to paint my walls Baby Cloud or move a single particle-board crib across my threshold."
The murmur spiked into a sharp wave of whispers. Mrs. Gable took a sudden, jerky step backward, her mouth falling open.
Harper shot out of her velvet chair, her face draining of color. "Naomi! Have you lost your mind? Turn off that mic right now—"
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"Sit down, Harper," I said. It wasn't a request. It was the voice of a Coast Guard boarding officer giving an order to an uncooperative deckhand.
The authority in it—cold, absolute, and utterly unshakeable—stopped her dead in her tracks. She sank back into the white velvet, trembling, her hands clamped over her round stomach.
