The evening of the reunion arrived.
I stood in front of my mirror and considered what to wear.
I didn't want anything elaborate.
I didn't want to attract attention.
I chose a simple gray dress.
I put on comfortable black shoes with low heels.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing designed to impress anybody.
I looked at myself one last time.
Seventy-three.
That was my age.
I had been a wife, a mother, a businesswoman, and a widow.
I had made decisions that affected hundreds of employees and major corporate customers.
Yet I still felt a little nervous about walking into a room full of people from high school.
I took a breath.
Then I left.
The Fairmont Plaza looked exactly like the kind of hotel where a reunion should be held.
The ballroom had been prepared.
Tables were arranged.
The staff were working.
Everything appeared ready for the evening.
I recognized some of the details from my years of dealing with the hotel.
I noticed the linens first.
That was habit.
I had spent too much of my life looking at fabric to stop noticing it now.
Then I saw Brenda.
She recognized me immediately.
Her expression changed for only a moment.
Then she smiled.
Not a welcoming smile.
A familiar one.
The kind she had worn when she spotted me in the school hallway.
"Martha Higgins."
She deliberately used my maiden name.
I understood why.
It was a small way of reminding me that she remembered exactly who I had been.
She glanced at my dress.
"Still keeping things pretty plain, aren't you?"
I looked at her.
"Most of the time."
I didn't explain anything.
I didn't tell her about the company.
I didn't mention the hotel contracts.
I didn't tell her how many years I had spent negotiating arrangements with places like this one.
I simply stood there.
Brenda reached over and gave my arm a little pat.
Then she pointed toward another area of the room.
"Why don't you sit near Carol? Her hearing aids have been giving her trouble. You two probably won't need much conversation."
I looked in the direction she indicated.
Then I looked back at Brenda.
"I'll choose my own seat, thank you."
Her smile tightened.
I could tell she hadn't expected that answer.
I walked away.
For a moment, I felt pleased with myself.
It wasn't a dramatic exchange.
I hadn't embarrassed her.
I hadn't raised my voice.
I had simply declined to let her decide where I belonged.
That was enough.
I found a place in the ballroom.
People were greeting one another.
Some were laughing.
Others were trying to remember names and faces.
The years had changed all of us.
There were familiar voices, familiar expressions, and faces I hadn't seen since the last reunion.
I didn't know how many people remembered me.
I didn't make an effort to find out.
I wanted the evening to proceed normally.
Then the banquet service began to run into trouble.
Two servers had called the hotel to report that they were caught behind a serious accident on the interstate.
They couldn't get to the venue on time.
The remaining staff continued working.
They could manage the event, but the shortage was noticeable.
Some tables waited longer than expected.
The service became slower.
Brenda noticed.
She complained loudly.
She blamed the hotel.
She made sure people around her heard how dissatisfied she was.
I listened without joining the conversation.
I knew what it was like to have employees delayed by circumstances beyond their control.
I had dealt with delivery problems for decades.
Sometimes the weather interfered.
Sometimes equipment failed.
Sometimes a road closure changed an entire schedule.
A good business owner didn't make every difficult moment worse by blaming the people trying to solve it.
But Brenda seemed determined to find someone responsible for her inconvenience.
I remained near the coffee station.
The staff were doing their best.
I watched the banquet captain coordinating the service.
I could see that another pair of hands would help.
I wasn't afraid of work.
I had spent years doing far more demanding things than pouring coffee.
I was considering whether to offer assistance when Brenda approached.
She had spotted a spare apron on a passing service cart.
She took it.
Then she held it out toward me.
"Would you mind helping, Martha? They're clearly having trouble keeping up."
I looked at the apron.
She wasn't asking kindly.
There was a little amusement in her voice.
Her table was watching.
Then she added something that made her intention unmistakable.
"You'd probably feel more at home working behind the scenes, anyway."
Her companions laughed.
Not quietly.
Not accidentally.
They laughed because Brenda had given them permission.
I heard somebody say that I hadn't changed.
For a moment, the ballroom seemed to disappear.
I was back at Oakridge High.
I could almost see Brenda examining the green floral dress.
I could hear the laughter at the prom.
I could remember standing beside Tommy, waiting for him to say something.
But I wasn't seventeen anymore.
I looked at the apron.
Then I took it.
Brenda seemed satisfied.
She returned to her table.
I tied the apron around my waist.
The banquet captain was nearby.
I approached her and asked whether she could use another person.
She recognized me immediately.
We had met through years of corporate meetings and hotel arrangements.
She knew who I was.
She also understood the situation without making it uncomfortable.
She agreed to let me help.
I began with the coffee.
Then I refilled water glasses.
I carried away empty plates and kept an eye on the tables that needed attention.
There was nothing difficult about it.
I knew how to work.
I had spent decades loading heavy wet linens into trucks.
I had scrubbed laundry floors after flooding.
I had helped deal with broken equipment when a delivery deadline was approaching.
I had worked through winter storms when customers still needed their orders.
An apron didn't change who I was.
Brenda seemed to enjoy seeing me moving around the ballroom.
She called for more water without looking properly in my direction.
I filled her glass.
Later, she raised it again.
I returned and refilled it a second time.
She didn't thank me.
I didn't expect her to.
The minutes passed.
I continued helping.
The staff were grateful for the extra assistance.
I was glad I could make their evening easier.
And something else was happening.
The more I worked, the less I thought about Brenda.
The apron stopped feeling like an insult.
It was simply something I was wearing while doing a job.
I didn't feel ashamed.
I didn't feel smaller.
I felt useful.
That was a feeling I understood.
At some point, I glanced toward the ballroom clock.
There was still time before nine.
I continued serving.
Brenda remained at her table, talking with her companions.
She seemed completely comfortable with the idea that I was there to help her.
She had no reason to think otherwise.
I had asked for confidentiality.
The staff had respected it.
My name wasn't in the program.
Nobody had announced my business connection.
And I hadn't offered an explanation.
I wasn't waiting for Brenda to apologize.
I wasn't even certain she would understand why she should.
I was simply letting the evening unfold.
Then the clock reached nine.
The ballroom doors opened.
Mr. Robert Sterling, the hotel's general manager, entered carrying a leather portfolio.
He spoke briefly with one of the waiters.
I was still beside the coffee station.
The waiter pointed in my direction.
Mr. Sterling looked across the room.
Then he started walking toward me.
The conversation around the tables began to quiet.
I watched him approach.
He knew exactly why he had come.
And he was carrying the documents we had agreed would be brought at that hour.
I stood with the apron still tied around my waist.
The evening had reached the moment I had arranged eight months earlier.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: The Man With the Leather Folder Walked Past Brenda and Addressed the Woman She Had Just Ordered Around
The Blue-Checked Dress That Taught Me How Much One Cruel Laugh Could Cost
Part 4 of 20
