I waited ten minutes. Then I walked out to my car.
I wasn’t going to clean the kitchen. I was going to serve the main course.
The Hayes-Barton Country Club smelled of old money and desperation.
When I arrived, the reception was in full swing. The chandeliers cast a golden glow over the room, reflecting off the polished silverware and the forced smiles of the attendees. My parents were in their element, holding court near the center of the room. My dad was shaking hands with a vigor that bordered on manic; my mom was laughing too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny.
I stood in the shadows near the entrance, watching.
They looked perfect. The pillars of the community. The charitable, successful couple.
Then, the doors opened, and Mr. Keller walked in.
Mr. Keller was the President of the Association, a man of rigid morals and immense influence. My father had spent five years trying to get into his inner circle.
