PART ONE
The cashier stared at the glowing screen.
“One thousand forty-seven dollars and sixty-two cents.”
Behind her, two enormous shopping carts were overflowing with ribeye steaks, wild-caught salmon, imported olives, artisan bread, bottles of champagne, gourmet coffee, premium chocolate, fresh flowers, six kinds of cheese, and enough appetizers to feed a small wedding.
My daughter, Melissa, was hosting twelve people that evening.
Her husband, Grant Holloway, had invited two senior partners from his consulting firm, their wives, and several people he apparently believed could help him move into upper management.
Melissa had talked about the dinner for a week.
The right wine.
The right table setting.
The right candles.
The right impression.
Everything had to look expensive.
Everything except the woman expected to pay for it.
I had placed exactly three things on the belt for myself.
