Arthur lowered the file. “What brought this on?”
“A young waitress is wearing Evelyn’s necklace.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Where did she get it?”
“From her mother.”
Arthur’s face changed. It was quick, but Margaret noticed.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Arthur.”
“I’m trying to remember something.”
“Remember what?”
“Evelyn had a friend named Elaine.”
Margaret leaned forward. “Who?”
“Elaine Foster. They were close in college.”
“Was she at the funeral?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Find her.”
Arthur looked at the file. “I can try.”
“Now.”
He rose. “I’ll make some calls.”
“Don’t call Sophie.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Don’t contact her mother’s family until we know what happened.”
Arthur paused. “Understood.”
He left with the portfolio.
Claire stood beside the window. “You remember Elaine?”
“No.”
“Could she have been Sophie’s mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could she have raised Evelyn’s child?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we need to find out without frightening Sophie.”
Margaret looked at the ballroom doors. “She thinks I’ll take the necklace.”
“Would you?”
“No.”
“Would you ask her to come live with you?”
The question was too large for the room.
“I don’t even know if she’s related to me.”
“Suppose she is.”
Margaret looked down at her hands. “Then I’d ask what she wants.”
Claire nodded.
“That’s all?” Margaret asked.
“That’s where you start.”
Sophie returned to the ballroom with an empty tray. She moved between the tables, offering wine and water as if the room had not stopped around her minutes earlier.
Margaret watched from the side, resisting the urge to call her over again.
A guest reached for a glass. Sophie handed it to him, keeping her eyes on the tray.
He said something to her. She shook her head.
The guest laughed, but not kindly.
Margaret crossed the room.
“What did you say to her?”
The man looked startled. “Nothing.”
“I heard you.”
“It was a joke.”
“Then explain it.”
The man’s face tightened. “I asked if she was auditioning for a family reunion.”
Sophie’s shoulders stiffened.
Margaret stared at him. “That was your joke?”
He looked toward the guests at his table. “I meant no harm.”
“Then apologize.”
“I’m not apologizing for a joke.”
“You will, or you can leave.”
The man’s mouth opened. He glanced around the room, searching for someone to intervene.
No one did.
He turned to Sophie. “I’m sorry.”
Sophie didn’t answer.
“Thank you,” Margaret said. “Please go.”
The man set his drink down and walked toward the exit.
A few guests had seen the exchange. The whispering resumed, but now it carried a different uncertainty.
Margaret returned to her place beside the stage.
The foundation director came toward her with a tense expression. “That donor gave a quarter million last year.”
“Then he can afford to be decent.”
“We need him.”
“No.”
“Margaret, the scholarship budget—”
“Then we’ll find another way to fund it.”
“You can’t dismiss every donor who says something wrong.”
“I didn’t dismiss him for making a mistake. I dismissed him because he refused to apologize.”
The director looked toward Sophie. “This situation is becoming difficult.”
“It was difficult before we noticed it.”
“Do you want me to ask her to leave?”
“No.”
“She’s staff.”
“She’s a person.”
The director looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me.”
He turned toward the servers and went back to work.
At ten-thirty, Arthur returned with a second folder and a troubled expression.
“Did you find Elaine?” Margaret asked.
“I found a number for her former employer. She died six years ago.”
Sophie was across the room, carrying a tray of water glasses.
“Did she have a daughter?” Claire asked.
“Her obituary listed one. Sophie Foster.”
The name hung in the air.
Sophie glanced over, sensing the attention. She set down the tray.
“Why are you saying my name?” she asked.
Arthur stepped back. “I’m sorry.”
“Who are you?”
“Arthur Bell. I’m the foundation’s attorney.”
“Why are you looking me up?”
Margaret moved closer, but kept a respectful distance. “We found a connection to your mother.”
“You found something?”
“Maybe.”
“Why didn’t you ask me before calling people?”
“You’re right. I should have.”
Sophie folded her arms. “What did you find?”
“Your mother was named Elaine Foster,” Arthur said. “She was friends with my daughter.”
“Your daughter?”
“Evelyn Whitmore.”
Sophie’s expression went blank.
“I don’t know that name,” she said.
Margaret’s voice softened. “She was my daughter.”
“Your daughter died.”
“That’s what I believed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” Margaret said.
“Did my mother know her?”
Arthur answered, “They were friends in college.”
Sophie looked at him. “You knew my mother?”
“I met her once or twice.”
“Then why haven’t I heard about you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did my mother say about Evelyn?”
“Nothing,” Margaret said. “At least, not to me.”
