Chapter 6 - The Toast Before the Hallway
The hospital had given me three butterfly closures on my forearm and a sheet that listed them like inventory. Laceration, left forearm. Abrasion, right cheek. Puncture, left palm. I sat in the back of the car service the foundation had paid for and kept touching the edge of the bandage, and the ballroom kept coming back in pieces from two hours earlier.
We'd been set up on the low riser at the east end of the ballroom. Not the main stage. That was for the speeches. Me and two other girls from the agency, hired strings for cocktail hour. Quartet minus one because Dana called out sick. My sequined dress caught every light when I moved, and the contractor had told us to smile but not talk unless someone spoke to us first. Background, but pretty.
Vanessa Hale found me during our break. I knew her face from the program — donor host, Hale Foundation, long magenta dress that fit like it had been sewn on her that morning, dark hair pulled into a low bun. She walked straight through our little cluster with a champagne flute and stopped too close.
"You girls are playing too fast," she said. Not loud, but loud enough that the people nearest the riser turned. "This is dinner music. My husband paid for elegance, not a race."
I felt my face heat. "Yes, ma'am. We'll pull the tempo back."
"You'll pull it back now," she said, and tapped my bow arm lightly with two fingers. Correcting me like I was staff she owned. "And the sequins — next time wear what the agency sends. That neckline reads cheap under these lights."
One of the violinists looked down at her shoes. I just nodded. I could feel the sweat under the dress. The ballroom was warm from the sconces and bodies, and the air smelled like lilies and butter and perfume.
Marcus Hale saved me without saving me. He stepped up onto the edge of the riser with his tuxedo jacket open, bow tie a little crooked, a glass raised high. Short dark hair, stubble that the gala photos would later smooth out. He put his other hand briefly on Vanessa's lower back — husband's hand, owner's hand — and smiled out at the room.
"To my wife," he said, loud enough to pull everyone in. "Who makes all this beautiful. And to the music keeping us civilized tonight."
People laughed. People lifted glasses. He looked at me when he said music, just for a second too long. Not lewd. Just noticing. I saw Vanessa see it. Her smile stayed perfect and her fingers tightened around her flute until I thought the stem would snap.
After the toast the coordinator waved us back for the last set. I played with my shoulder aching, trying to keep my eyes on my stand. Through the strings I could see the waiters building the champagne tower near the hallway doors — four tiers of coupes on a draped table, right where the ballroom funneled into that white-paneled hallway with the checkered floor. One busboy kept steadying the base while guests brushed past with their hips and purses. The whole thing wobbled every time the double doors swung.
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During the final song Marcus came back. He stood near that tower, talking to two older donors, but his eyes kept drifting to the riser. To me. Vanessa watched him watch me from across the room beside the auction table. She didn't move. She just sipped her champagne and held his gaze until he looked away first.
When we finished, the applause was thin and polite. Vanessa was already walking toward the hallway doors, toward Marcus and that wobbling tower of glass. I packed my violin with my hands shaking, telling myself the night was over and I could change and get my check and go home. I didn't know she was waiting past those doors.
