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My mother adjusted one pearl earring. “I didn’t ask.”

Of course she hadn’t. Patricia Ellsworth didn’t ask questions when she didn’t want answers before she’d had at least two cocktails.

I stood near the stairs with the ring box in my jacket pocket. The box was small, square, and ridiculously heavy for something that weighed almost nothing. I’d checked it twice since coming downstairs, not because I planned to use it, but because I wanted it with me, a touchstone of sorts.

My father’s study door opened, and he strode into the hall carrying a drink he hadn’t touched. His tie was dark blue, his shirt white, his cuff links gold, the monogram barely showing. He looked freshly pressed in a way that irritated me because I knew he’d had a terrible day, and I’d begun to resent how little terrible days showed on him.

“I’m going to see Lorrie before we all go to the club.”

My mother closed her eyes for half a second as my father stopped beside the entry table. “For what purpose?”

“To talk to her.”

“You’ve done quite a lot of that already.”

“Not enough, apparently.”

My mother made a small sound. It wasn’t quite a gasp, she didn’t gasp unless someone served red wine in the wrong glass, and even then she usually managed restraint.

“She needs time to dress,” she said. “Bitsy will have the house in a state as it is.”

I could picture that easily. Bitsy Hale in full pre-dinner command, moving from room to room with fresh lipstick, a cloud of Chanel wafting behind her, and an opinion about every clothing choice within a ten-mile radius.

“I won’t keep her long.”

“If you’re taking the ring,” he said, “then perhaps you’ve come to your senses.”

“No, there won’t be a proposal tonight,” I said.

My mother’s hand went to the pearls at her throat as the house went quiet enough for me to hear the ice shift in my father’s glass.

“Paul,” she said carefully, “I understand that you and Lorrie have had some difficult conversations this week.”

That was the sort of sentence people in our world used when they wanted to brush everything under the oriental rug.

“We have.”

“But tonight has been planned for weeks. People are coming.” She pursed her lips. “Your grandparents are coming.”

That was apparently meant to restore order.

“My grandmother has survived two hip surgeries and Uncle Richard’s second wife,” I said. “She’ll survive.”

My father didn’t appreciate the remark, which was a shame because for once I thought it had been fairly good. Maybe Lorrie was rubbing off on me.

“You’re embarrassing your mother,” he said.

“I’m not doing this for sport.”

“No, you’re doing it because a girl got upset and now you’ve decided to dismantle an evening that matters to both families.”

“Lorrie isn’t a girl.”

My father’s mouth tightened.

That was new for me, correcting him. Usually I let his words pass if the larger meaning seemed clear enough. That was how families like ours worked. People said things at dinner, and everyone pretended not to hear.

“Darling,” my mother said, “could tonight simply be dinner? No announcement. No pressure. Just dinner.”