"If it doesn't, we'll find one nearby," Ethan said. "What if they don't let us in?" she asked. He glanced at the invitation on the seat between them. "Then I'll tell them a lady named Evelyn said we could come," he replied. Hope nodded with enormous confidence. "She seemed like somebody people listen to."
At the Grand Alder Hotel, Evelyn was discovering that being listened to and being obeyed were not quite the same thing. Nolan Pierce stood at the entrance to the private dining room reviewing the seating chart, his tuxedo immaculate and his expression disapproving. When he saw Evelyn move a pair of place cards from the hostess's clipboard onto Table One, he touched her wrist and guided her toward the corridor. The gesture appeared affectionate from a distance, although Evelyn felt the pressure in his fingers.
"You changed the seating arrangement," Nolan said. Evelyn freed her arm. "I invited two guests. He looked at the handwritten cards: Ethan Walker, Hope Walker.
"I thought Table One was for sponsors," he replied. "That's where we put the people who make the evening possible. Evelyn studied him for a moment. "They made my evening possible," she said.
Nolan had been the trust's largest individual donor for three consecutive years, or at least the most vocal about his contributions. His company owned three apartment developments in New Hampshire, two hotels in Maine, and an expanding portfolio of properties around Bellwether. He believed charity could be useful when properly managed and troublesome when it interfered with a profitable deal. The Lantern House had become troublesome, not because he disliked the families who used it but because his plans made no room for the building to remain.
"The new owners of the Vermont Mountain Bank will be sitting at Table One," he said, lowering his voice. "So will the state tourism commissioner and my partners from Boston. We have precisely eight seats and a very specific order of conversation." Evelyn looked down at the chart. There were ten seats available if two empty places reserved for late donors were included, and one of the expected guests had already canceled. "I think we can find room for a father and his child," she said.
"What father and child? Nolan asked. She explained as little as possible. A man had helped her with her car; his daughter had wanted to see the decorations; she had invited them to the evening.
Nolan stared at her, then gave a faint incredulous laugh. "You're filling a donor table with the guy who jump-started your car? Evelyn met his gaze. "Yes," she replied.
"There are smarter ways to thank a mechanic. His voice was soft now, almost pitying. "Send a fruit basket. Write a check.
Put him in a photograph if the publicity team likes the story. You don't seat him next to the people underwriting next quarter's budget. Evelyn felt a familiar ache behind her forehead. "You keep calling it a community gala," she said, "but you seem very concerned about the community getting inside."