Page 7 of The Better Sister

I noticed another set of attorney eyes shift toward Jake. Adam was the one who’d brought the Gentry Group on board as a Rives & Braddock client, but I knew for a fact that Jake was working on some complex issues that had come up with regard to the federal government’s jurisdiction over some of their international dealings. I found myself wondering why Jake wouldn’t also be with the client today, if it was really so important.

Bill smiled and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Adam will be here. This is a big night for you, after all.”

“Of course he will.” I managed to sound like I believed it.

“And if he doesn’t show, you know where to find me. I may be eighty, but I’m meaner than him. I’ll kick his ass.”

I smiled to myself as I caught sight of Ethan lingering near the entrance to the ballroom, the clutch purse he had offered to hold when he saw me struggling with it between sips and handshakes still tucked awkwardly into his underarm. He looked relieved when I began heading his way.

“You’re my knight in shining armor tonight, Ethan.” I tried to plant a kiss on the top of his head, the way I used to when I was taller than him, but it landed on his temple instead.

He feigned repulsion. “How much champagne have you had?”

“Mom Juice doesn’t count.” I wasn’t a super heavy drinker, but the family joke was that I had an extra liver when it came to Veuve Clicquot.

“I’ve got to admit, itwouldbe seriously funny if you got up on the stage totally hammered.” He recited a sentence straight from my prepared remarks, slurring his speech and swaying slightly during the delivery.

“You know my speech?”

“How could I not? You practiced it, like, a hundred times Tuesday night in the kitchen.”

He’d had his Beats headphones on in the living room. There was no way he could have heard me unless he’d wanted to. He was actually proud of me.

“You’re such a good kid.” I felt my eyes begin to water.

“Oh my god, you are drunk,” he said with a smile.

“Should I see if I can get us into the banquet room a little early? I want to look at my speech one last time before the program begins.”

“That’d be good. Maybe we can sober you up, ya big lush.”

The president of the foundation took the stage, explaining that the award was to honor a journalist whose work had changed the lives of ordinary people. “To introduce this year’s honoree, it’smyhonor to introduce the editor we all know as the quintessential ‘City Woman’: Catherine Lancaster.”

I let out a little gasp and joined in the applause. Catherine had told me she needed to be in Los Angeles tonight and wouldn’t be able to make it. Next to me, Ethan was grinning knowingly.

“You were in on this, weren’t you?”

Catherine had turned seventy-three in March but could easily pass for fifty. Her gown was a peacock-blue shirtdress style with a big, dramatic pointed collar. Her bright orange hair was pulled up, wrapped in one of her signature turbans, and her makeup was minimal with the exception of dark brick-red lipstick.

She began by telling the audience that I’d had no idea she was going to be at the gala that night. “If I had told her, she would have felt obligated to write my remarks for me—a side effect of the deep and abiding fear that resides within all of my former employees—for reasons I cannot fathom, of course.”

I never guessed when I began working atCity Womanthat Catherine would become not only my mentor but also one of my closest friends. But hearinghermarvel atmyaccomplishments was utterly surreal. “I told Chloe early in her career, ‘You’ve got a smart gut; just learn how to trust it.’ But, watching her over the years, I’ve realized she has raw gut instincts, yes, but she also has an enormous heart filled with passion and empathy. And it’s that combination that makes her so exciting as a writer and publisher. I have never told Chloe this, but she has far surpassed any work I evendreamedof doing at her age. Or atthisage, in fact—the tender age of thirty-five.” She paused for the laughter. “So it is my honor tonight to introduce my dear friend—a talented and gutsy warrior: Chloe Taylor.”

Even though I had memorized my speech, I could feel my eyes darting to my notes on the podium—better than the alternative of staring into the sea of glaring lights. I couldn’t make out any faces in the audience. And I had to trust on blind faith that the tech people were displaying the photographs on the huge screen above my head as I had requested. They were pictures of the women whose stories I had published. It seemed fitting to keep the focus on them tonight. No one needed a close-up of me at the podium.

When I was finished, I heard applause break out immediately, along with the sound of chairs scooting as people rose to their feet for a standing ovation. A loud wolf whistle caught my attention as I edged toward the stairs at the side of the stage. It was from Table 2. Ethan held one fist above his head. “Yeah, Mom!”

Next to him came another loud whistle. Adam was there, his pinkies pressed into his mouth.

Of course he was there. When push came to shove, he always came through.

4

I had to admit, Nicky did call it.

When Adam got the court’s permission to move to New York two years after he left Nicky, my mom phoned me and made me promise that I wasn’t “messing around” with him.

“Ew, he’s my brother-in-law. No.”

---