Martin Wynn put an envelope beside my water glass and said, “You need to end your engagement before Clara goes onstage.”
Behind him, the museum’s donor gala carried on under warm lights. A waiter slipped between tables with a tray of champagne. At the far end of the room, Clara’s name sat on the program beside the time of her presentation.
Martin kept one hand on the envelope. He didn’t look at the program.
“What is this?” I asked.
“A way to make the decision easier.” His voice stayed low. “Take it. Tell Clara you’ve changed your mind. Leave before she presents.”
I looked at his hand. The nails were clean and square. A gold watch showed beneath his cuff.
“You’re asking me to break off my engagement.”
“I’m telling you it needs to happen.”
I’d expected him to dislike me. I hadn’t expected him to bring cash to a museum gala.
Across the room, Clara was talking with a woman from the education department. She had a glass of water in one hand and her notes in the other. She hadn’t seen us. I wondered how much time Martin thought he had before she noticed her father had pulled me away.
“Why now?” I asked.
“Because this is the last sensible moment.”
The envelope stayed under his palm. I could hear the stage microphone being tested. A small pop came through the speakers, then a man’s voice asking whether the room could hear him.
Martin leaned closer. “You don’t want to make a scene.”
That made me look at him. He had chosen the one room where a scene would be useful to him.
I didn’t touch the envelope. “You can tell me what you think is going to happen.”
His eyes moved to my suit, then back to my face. “Your income is modest, Evan. Clara has a career to build. You’ll make it impossible for her.”
For a second, I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because his certainty was so complete that there seemed no room in it for the person he claimed to be protecting.
The envelope sat between us, still on his side of the table.
“You think I’m the thing standing in her way?” I asked.
“I think you should be realistic.”
“I am.”
A chair scraped behind me. I glanced over and saw Clara turn toward the stage as someone announced a change to the evening program. The next presentation had been moved up. She set her notes on the nearest table and started toward the aisle.
Martin lifted his hand from the envelope. “Think carefully.”
“I have.”
He drew the envelope back toward himself. I went to Clara before he could say anything else.
She had already heard the program change. “They’ve changed the order,” she said. Her mouth stayed composed, but she was pinching the folded edge of her notes.
“Did you know about it?”
“No. I was told the schedule was set.”
A staff member hurried past carrying a stack of printed programs. Clara took one from the top. The page had a fresh crease down the middle, as if someone had folded it and opened it again.
“Maybe it’s a timing issue,” she said.
She sounded like she was trying to make the explanation fit. I knew that feeling. I’d been doing it myself since Martin put the envelope on the table.
The drive home was quiet. Clara kept her coat on and watched the streetlights pass across the windshield. I had both hands on the wheel, though the road was empty.
She asked what her father wanted. I told her.
“He offered you money to leave me?”
“He put an envelope in front of me and said I should end things before your presentation.”
Her shoulders pulled tight beneath her coat. “What did you say?”
“That I wouldn’t.”
She turned to look at me. “Why would he do that?”
