Chapter 25 - A Different Gala
Two years after the original incident, the Ashford Foundation held the gala again.
Not at the hotel where Tamsin had been locked.
A different property.
Why?
Renovation schedule.
Not trauma avoidance.
I asked Mara:
“Should Tamsin come?”
“Ask her.”
Of course.
Tamsin was eight.
“Do you want to go to Dad’s fancy charity dinner?”
“Dress?”
“Yes.”
“Cake?”
Probably.
“Kids?”
Some.
“Lucasta?”
“No.”
“Then okay.”
She attended for ninety minutes.
Not the whole night.
Children do not need midnight philanthropy.
Mara came too.
Not as my date.
As Tamsin’s mother and an invited guest.
The seating chart had no blood table.
Tamsin sat between Mara and my cousin Audrey’s adopted son Ben.
Ben was eleven.
He told her:
“Old people talk forever.”
Tamsin whispered:
“I know.”
During dinner she dropped a fork.
Server replaced it.
Nothing.
She asked for extra bread.
Received it.
Nothing.
At dessert she wandered with Mara toward a service corridor.
I noticed.
Body tightened.
Then stopped myself from following.
Mara could parent.
Five minutes later Tamsin returned carrying a cookie.
“Where go?”
“Kitchen.”
“Why?”
“Chef show chocolate.”
Fine.
Not every corridor becomes a threat.
Near the end, Tamsin asked:
“Where room?”
“What room?”
“Lucasta room.”
The catering room.
Different hotel.
“It isn’t here.”
“Good.”
Then she thought.
“Could go old hotel sometime?”
“If you ever want.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why I want?”
Excellent.
“No reason you should.”
She shrugged.
“Then no.”
Trauma recovery without pilgrimage.
Good.
We left at nine-fifteen.
She slept in the car.
Mara and I talked quietly.
Not about Lucasta.
About school.
May you like
That may have been the clearest sign the gala no longer owned us.
────────────────────
