be kind, be done.
That’s when a voice cut the ballroom clean in half.
“Wait just a moment.”
The music died mid-bow stroke. Three hundred guests turned.
The woman rising from the family table wasn’t a bridesmaid, or an emcee, or a tipsy aunt. She was Dorothy Hayes – eighty-two, steel-spined, the family matriarch who’d built half this city – and she was continue reading …
