Page 194 of Ricardo

My father sees it.

My mother sees it.

Half the room sees it.

There is no mistaking the gesture.

I take it.

For the next hour, I become exactly who I need to be in this room, like I have in so many rooms before. But this time, I have a supportive partner next to me.

I talk to Nora Whitcomb Farley, then discreetly redirect her to the hospital foundation chair. I remind Patrice that Sybil Crane’s escort cannot be allowed near Harriet Bloom after the second glass of champagne. I answer questions. I smile. I laugh when it's required of me.

And every once in a while, I feel Dante's gaze on my back. I remind myself to breathe because at least he's here. At least he cares enough to shoot discreet daggers our way.

That has to count for something.

Dinner begins without disaster.

Mario gives his remarks after the first course. He speaks of two years in Chicago, of investment, jobs, partnerships, permanence. He thanks the hospital foundation, the literacy initiative, the scholarship fund. He does not overstate. He does not plead for acceptance. He speaks like a man describing what already exists.

By dessert, the room has settled into the looser energy of wealthy people who have eaten enough to become generous and drunk enough to become careless with their wallets.

That is when I see Owen near the sponsor wall speaking to a man I do not recognize at first.

The man is in his forties, maybe early fifties, with sandy hair, a narrow face, and a tuxedo that fits well enough to tell me ‘money’ but not well enough to say ‘old money’. He smiles as Owen speaks, one hand resting lightly around a glass of champagne, his posture easy.

Owen looks pale, which makes my attention sharper.

I turn slightly, using Ricardo’s shoulder and a passing server as cover while I look more closely.

I hail a passing Patrice.

“Who is that man?” I ask quietly. “The one talking to Owen.”

“Umm.” She furrows her brow and consults the clipboard. “Evan Rusk. He was a last minute addition. A substitution for Jerry Bradshaw. A development attorney. They work for the same office, I believe.”

She sees my expression and looks at the man.

“Why? Is there a problem?” She sighs exasperatedly. “Did I seat him in the wrong place?”

“Oh, no, no. None at all,” I assure her. “I just didn't recognize him, that's all.”

She looks relieved. “Oh, okay. I'm glad. You had me worried for a second.” She laughs and walks off.

Evan Rusk.

A development attorney, yes. And likely one who does work in the same office as Jerry Bradshaw.

But that's not all.

He also does South Harbor land trust work. Not Frank Calhoun's employee on paper. He would never be that careless.

Careful enough to make sure that he was not on the guest list, but that he got in anyway.

Ricardo says something beside me, but I do not hear it.

Across the room, Evan Rusk laughs softly and hands Owen a card.