He explained the situation with the tone of a man who believes there has been a clerical error and also does not want to embarrass anyone.
He was very careful.
He used the word mix-up twice.
My mother-in-law tilted her head and made a sympathetic sound.
“Oh, sweetheart. No, that’s not a mix-up.”
She touched his arm.
“We just ran out of space at the family tables. You know how these things go. Everybody brought a guest. Tables filled up fast.”
She looked at me then, just briefly.
“Table 11 is lovely. It’s right near the windows.”
My husband started to say something.
She was already turning back to her sisters.
I put his escort card in my purse.
I put my own in my purse, too.
I said, “I’ll be right back,” to no one in particular.
And I walked to the restroom, locked the door of a stall, and stood there for approximately 90 seconds doing nothing.
Then I took my phone out and texted my paralegal, a woman named Dana, who has worked with me for 6 years and whose judgment I trust more than most people I’ve met.
And I said, “Can you pull the venue contract from the Henderson Marsh file and send it to my personal email?”
She replied in 4 minutes.
“Done. You okay?”
I replied, “Getting there.”
I washed my hands.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
