The lobby of the Pacific Horizon Yacht Club smelled of saltwater and expensive leather floor mats.
Matthew held my left hand with his small, warm fingers, his other arm pinning his gray stuffed tiger, Toby, against his ribs.
He had spent three hours that afternoon drawing a blue sailboat on a piece of construction paper for my father’s retirement card.
The paper was bent at the corner where his thumb had pressed too hard.
I checked my wrist watch, twisting the silver band twice around my wrist.
It was exactly six o’clock, the time my father told us to arrive.
The hostess, a young woman in a navy blazer with brass buttons, did not look up when I gave her my father’s name.
She turned her pencil to a separate list taped to the very back of her leather-bound reservation book.
“Clara Miller,” I said, my voice measured and calm. “And Matthew.”
She did not look up immediately.
She ran a manicured finger down a printed sheet of paper, past the names of city council members and retired judges.
Her finger stopped at the very bottom, where a small notation had been written in blue ink.
“Ah, yes,” she said, her voice dropping to a flat whisper.
“Table nineteen.”
I checked my wrist watch again, the metal cold against my skin.
“Where is table nineteen?” I asked.
She pointed a pencil toward the back hallway, past the main banquet room where the chandeliers were already lit.
The main hall looked warm, filled with seventy people in linen suits, their laughter echoing off the polished mahogany walls.
My father’s voice boomed over the crowd, welcoming the first guests.
The hostess did not lead us toward the light.
She guided us down the narrow, carpeted corridor that led toward the rear of the building.
By fifteen minutes past six, we were sitting at a square green card table.
It was placed directly against the beige drywall, three feet from the double swinging service doors of the kitchen.
Every thirty seconds, the wooden doors flew open with a rush of hot, greasy air and the loud clatter of heavy white plates.
