“Can you really afford a place like this?”
Melody’s question rose above the soft clinking of silverware.
She made no attempt to keep her voice down.
A few people at nearby tables glanced over, then quickly looked away.
I kept my hands folded beneath the edge of the white tablecloth.
Across from me, Melody leaned back in her chair with a small, satisfied smile.
The restaurant sat on the top floor of a historic hotel overlooking the Potomac. Tall windows framed the lights of Washington across the water. Crystal fixtures glowed above dark wood and polished brass.
Everything about the room spoke of wealth.
Melody seemed determined to prove she belonged.
She had spent most of dinner admiring the wine list, the hand-painted plates, the deputy secretary at another table.
Then her attention shifted back to me.
Her eyes rested on my blazer.
Black. Plain. Seven years old. The fabric near one cuff had softened. The elbows were tidy but no longer sharp.
I had paired it with a simple cream blouse and dark trousers.
There was nothing noticeable about my outfit.
That seemed to make Melody happy.
She brushed her fingers over her own new jacket. She had already mentioned its designer label twice.
“You heard what I said, Claire.”
