My father had managed this club for twelve years, and my signature was still on the primary club registry as an authorized signer from the summer I kept his books.
I knew every inch of this building, but we had never been seated in the kitchen hallway before.
I stood up and smoothed my skirt.
“Stay here for a minute, Matthew,” I said. “I am going to find your grandfather.”
The transition between the dark hallway and the bright banquet hall made my eyes water.
The room was decorated with large blue banners that read, Thank You, Arthur, for Thirty Years of Excellence.
I walked past tables of ten, where people were laughing and passing silver bread baskets.
I walked past my uncle Richard, who sat at a side table near the ice sculpture.
He was a retired appellate judge, and he sat in perfect posture, tapping a silver fountain pen on the edge of his water glass.
He nodded to me as I passed, his gray eyes tracking my movement with a quiet curiosity.
I did not stop to speak to him, focused on reaching the head table.
My father sat at the center of the long head table, his chest puffed out.
