For a moment, the atmosphere inside the elegant Beverly Hills hotel ballroom shifted.
The music continued, and servers still passed between tables carrying refreshments. Yet an uneasy quiet settled over the guests, the kind that follows a deliberate insult when nobody knows whether acknowledging it will make things worse.
Evelyn Carter stood near the main table.
At sixty-three, she maintained an upright posture and an exceptionally composed expression. Her navy-blue dress was understated but refined, and the pearl earrings she wore had once belonged to her mother.
People unfamiliar with Evelyn often misunderstood her restraint.
They assumed that because she rarely raised her voice, she could easily be persuaded to accept whatever others demanded.
Claire seemed particularly pleased by the attention her announcement attracted.
“My apartment in Santa Monica is empty,” she continued, raising her voice a little. “It’s small, of course, but for a woman living alone, it’s perfect. Besides, that way Daniel and I can start our life without worries.”
