“That’s enough!” Elizabeth’s voice was so loud that a table of men in suits looked over at us, and Rachael blushed, one hand dropping to her pregnant belly.

“I didn’t mean …”

Inés patted Rachael’s arm. “It’s okay, sweetie. Maybe this is not the best talk for lunchtime, but you can tell me on the way home.”

Actually, I wouldn’t have minded hearing a little more, but instead I said, “Is this how all your committee meetings go?”

Not a great joke, but enough for Rachael and Elizabeth to both smile weakly. Inés laughed and bumped my shoulder. “Wait and see, Kacy. Wait and see!”

Elizabeth pulled a trim notebook from her purse. “So, where shall we start?”

This was the moment of truth. Either I’d say nothing and they’d forget I existed, so I might as well have stayed home, or I’d open my mouth and say something stupid. I’m confident and competent. I can do this. I’d planned dozens of events—openings and fund raisers and receptions—but I’d planned them with Aimee. We’d spent hours matching the music to the canapés to the art to the type of attendees. If the art was off-putting, should the music be avant-garde and discordant, or soothing like Norah Jones? Would young professionals prefer a DJ or a big-band, retro vibe? And the budget was always the bottom line.

Inés started throwing out ideas—a fashion show, a lavish gala, a ball—and I couldn’t help asking, “What’s the budget?”

The women all exchanged a little smile that made me feel stupid, and then Rachael said, “These women—and Alondra, especially Alondra—are extremely talented at getting donations.”

“But it’s a good question.” Elizabeth’s tone was a little too sharp, and Rachael’s eyes widened in surprise.

Inés jumped in. “But the better question—more fun, at least—is the theme.”

Surely it wasn’t my imagination that Elizabeth seemed on edge around Rachael? But Inés spoke rapidly, throwing out fantastical ideas, from a carnival to a time traveler’s ball.

We were all laughing at the idea of a junior-prom theme when another woman, tall with a round face and blunt-cut bob, strode purposefully through the restaurant. She dropped into the chair beside me and held out her hand. “Hi. Alondra.”

Surprised, I put my own hand into hers for a brisk shake as she looked around the table. “Thanks for meeting downtown, ladies. I know it’s a little out of your way. Catch me up.”

Alondra sipped her iced tea, made a face, and flagged a waiter. “I’d like a water without ice or lemon and a Whitmeyer’s single-barrel neat.” Then she glanced around the table and arched an eyebrow as if to ask, Am I drinking alone?