Inside, the lobby smelled of cedar, orange peel, and wood smoke from the broad stone fireplace. The floor was polished marble, but not the cold modern kind; its surface showed little imperfections and hairline veins that made Ethan think of old granite at the quarry outside town. A grand piano stood near the staircase, where a woman in a red dress was playing a carol softly enough not to compete with the voices. Hope stopped just inside the doors and looked upward until her Santa hat slipped back over her ears.
"Daddy," she whispered, "it looks like somebody put Christmas inside a castle." Ethan squeezed her hand. "I think that's exactly what happened." They approached the reception desk, where a young hostess smiled and asked for their names.
"Ethan and Hope Walker," Ethan said, offering the gold invitation. "We're probably a little late." The hostess checked her list and looked up again, more surprised than Ethan expected. "You're Table One," she said. "Ms. Hartwell left instructions for us to escort you personally."
A woman standing behind the desk stepped forward before the hostess could continue. Felicity Moore ran donor relations and had spent the afternoon ensuring that every important person was seated close enough to another important person to feel appropriately important. She examined Ethan's suit, Hope's Santa hat, and the old invitation with a practiced eye. "There may be some confusion," she said, smiling without warmth.
Ethan had heard that tone before. It was the same voice used at banks when he asked about extending a payment deadline and at certain repair shops when an owner in a suit assumed he was a delivery driver. He placed the invitation on the desk carefully. "We're guests of Evelyn Hartwell," he said, "but if it's a problem, we can go." Hope tightened her hold on his hand, her small face falling.
Felicity looked down at the handwriting. "Table One is reserved for principal benefactors," she said. "There must have been a mistake." She turned to the hostess. "Put them in the overflow reception while I confirm the arrangement." Ethan reached for the card, deciding that twenty minutes in the lobby looking at lights would still count as a memorable Christmas.
"Is the ballroom over there? Hope asked, pointing toward the double doors. The hostess began to answer, but Felicity raised a hand. "Sweetheart, those doors are for the private event.
Hope looked up at her. "But the lady said my name," she replied. "She wrote it right next to Daddy's."
Before Felicity could respond, a man's voice came from behind them. "And the lady happens to be the host." Graham Hartwell stood at the foot of the staircase, his silver hair bright beneath the chandelier. He moved toward the desk with measured steps, glanced at the invitation, and then looked at Hope as though she were the first person he'd been genuinely pleased to meet all evening. "You must be the girl with the jumper cables," he said.