Something in Vivian fractures. She’s been holding it together, the smile, the posture, the hostess mask, for the better part of 40 years. But the Whitmores are walking away. The deal is dead. And the room is looking at her family the way she’s spent her entire life making sure they never would.
She turns on me. The polish is gone. The magazine-flipping, wine-swirling composure gone.
“You think you’re better than us now?”
Her voice is shaking.
“You think your little slides change anything? You were nothing. You had nothing when you left this house.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I had nothing because you made sure of that.”
“I did what was best for this family.”
“You did what was best for the image. There’s a difference.”
She looks around the room, searching for an ally. Her eyes land on familiar faces. Country club friends. Book club members. Women she’s had lunch with for 20 years.
She tries the social smile.
“This is so embarrassing. Family drama. You know how it is.”
Nobody smiles back.
Then a voice rises from the back. The older woman from the church, the one with reading glasses on a chain. She stands slowly, gripping the edge of her table.
“I’ve known Ruth Lindon for 50 years.”