“Order something.”
“For twelve people?” Patricia asked.
“Yes.”
“What am I supposed to order?”
I looked at the cracker tray.
“I hear restaurants sell food now.”
Linda covered her mouth with one hand.
Mark did not smile.
“This is childish.”
“No, Mark. Ruining someone’s clothing because you want pot roast is childish.”
Patricia stiffened.
“I explained why I did it.”
“Yes,” I said. “You did.”
I walked out.
Twenty minutes later, I almost turned around.
That is the part people usually remove from stories like mine.
They describe the moment a woman finally says no, and every step afterward sounds confident and triumphant.
My next step involved a pharmacy parking lot.
I was driving toward downtown when my hands became cold.
My thoughts started circling.
Patricia’s guests were already there.
Mark would be angry.
Melissa would hear about it.
People would say I had embarrassed the family.
Maybe I could go home.
Maybe I could still prepare something quickly.
Maybe I could call Sam and tell him there was an emergency.
I pulled into a parking lot on Broad Street and shut off the engine.
I was fifty-two years old.
I ran an organization.
I had employees.
A board.
A budget.
People called me when their lives were falling apart.
And I was afraid to attend my own award ceremony because my mother-in-law wanted green beans.
The absurdity did not make me angry.
It made me tired.
My phone rang.
Denise.
I answered.
“Where are you?”
“Almost there.”
Silence.
Then she said, “Clare.”
I closed my eyes.
“I pulled over.”
“I knew it.”
“How?”
“Because I know you.”
“That seems to be everyone’s specialty this weekend.”
“You sound cranky.”
“I am cranky.”
“Good. Cranky is useful.”
I looked through the windshield.
“I’m thinking about going back.”
Denise was quiet.
Then she asked, “Why?”
“Maybe I’m making too much of this.”
“Your mother-in-law ruined your gown.”
“I know.”
“On purpose.”
“Yes.”
“Because she wanted you to serve dinner.”
“Denise, I remember the evidence.”
She sighed.
“Clare, listen to me. The part of you that wants to turn around has been driving your life for twenty-three years.”
I gave a weak laugh.
“Very poetic.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Of course you’re not.”
“Let somebody else drive for ten minutes.”
I looked at my hands.
Then Denise added, “Also, I paid forty dollars to have that dress cleaned, and I expect a return on my investment.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
“All right.”
“You’re going?”
“I’m going.”
“Good.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You created me.”
I started the car.
By the time I arrived downtown, the lobby of the Ohio Theatre was busy but organized.
Volunteers carried clipboards.
A photographer adjusted equipment near the entrance.
Someone with a headset directed me toward registration.
The ordinary details helped.
Sign here.
Badge there.
Makeup touch-up at five-ten.
Sound check at five-thirty.
For twenty minutes, I stopped thinking about my family.
At five-eighteen, Sam Ortega appeared in the doorway.
Sam was in his forties and wore black sneakers with a suit, the uniform of a man responsible for too many things simultaneously.
“You ready?”
“For the ceremony?”
“For your presenter.”
I stood.
“Now?”
He led me down a backstage hallway.
I assumed I was about to meet the president of a foundation or a prominent nonprofit executive.
Sam stopped outside a dressing room.
“She asked for a few minutes alone with you.”
“Why?”
He smiled.
“You’ll see.”
“I hate that answer.”
He opened the door.
An older woman stood near the mirror.
Silver hair.
Black pantsuit.
Straight posture.
I recognized her before she turned.
Evelyn Grant.