I ran one finger beneath the total, not because I doubted the arithmetic but because I needed a physical action to keep my hands from shaking.
Beyond the bar, the birthday party continued.
The private room was separated from the main dining area by smoked glass, hanging greenery, and a wide opening that allowed the staff to carry plates in and out.
From my seat, I could see nearly the entire table.
Thirty-one people sat beneath gold pendant lights, surrounded by emptied plates, half-filled wineglasses, and the remains of a dinner I had been told not to join.
Blake was in the middle of a story.
Lila stood near the custom cake, taking photographs from several angles and checking each one before trying again.
My father, Warren, was leaning toward a judge he knew from the golf club.
