My sister blasted “INFERTILE, DIVORCED, FAILURE” across a 10-foot screen at her wedding while 200 guests laughed—my mother sipped wine, my father called it “just a joke.”

“So, what are you doing with yourself these days?”

“I work at a design firm.”

“Answering phones, I assume.”

I pick up my fork. Don’t correct him.

Paige arrives late, trailing perfume and self-importance. She flashes a four-carat engagement ring under the dining room light. Then she pulls me aside in the hallway.

“I need you to wear something understated at the wedding. Garrett’s family is very particular.”

She tilts her head.

“You still alone? No one?”

I say nothing. She smiles.

“Some people just aren’t meant for that, I guess.”

Before I leave, Vivian hands me a garment bag.

Inside, a pale beige dress, shapeless, two sizes too large.

“This will be perfect for you.”

At the door, Harold puts his hand on my shoulder.

“The Whitmores are old money. They judge. One wrong move and this deal dies. Don’t embarrass us.”

I drive back toward the highway, and then the name hits me.

Whitmore.

I know that name. Not from Paige’s ring. Not from Harold’s business talk. I know it from a project file sitting in my office in Richmond.

Back at my desk Monday morning, I pull up the client database.

Whitmore Heritage Foundation.

There it is.