Nolan's eyes flicked toward the dance floor. "You let a mechanic and a little girl dictate the evening's emotional tone," he said. "That's not leadership. That's sentimentality.
Evelyn watched him for a moment, suddenly aware of how carefully he had cultivated the appearance of friendship while treating her values as an inconvenience. "No," she replied. "They reminded me what the evening was supposed to mean. The fact that it bothers you is useful information."
He lowered his voice. "You don't know the position you're putting the foundation in. That property is deteriorating, and a great many people depend on us making financially responsible decisions." Evelyn nodded. "Then let's make responsible decisions. All seven trustees, the affected families, independent engineers, and a complete accounting of who stands to benefit."
Nolan's jaw hardened. "You're going to regret making this personal." Evelyn thought of Hope asking whether the hotel workers got to dance, and of Arthur Bellamy's startled face when someone invited him to sit. "It was personal long before tonight," she said. "We just forgot whose lives were involved."
At ten-fifteen, Ethan decided that Hope had stayed long enough. She had eaten two rolls, half a slice of cake, and more of the candied pecans than he wanted to know about. Her Santa hat had slipped sideways, her borrowed shoes were beginning to pinch, and her questions had slowed into sleepy little observations about the ceiling lights. He found Evelyn near the fireplace and thanked her for the evening.
"I'm glad you came," she said. Hope reached up with the paper star, which she had protected throughout dinner and dancing. "I made this for my mom," she explained, "but Daddy said we can hang it where people see it. Maybe you could put it near the ballroom for tonight." Evelyn took the folded paper with the care she would have used for something much more fragile.
"Are you sure?" she asked. Hope nodded. "It would be nice if somebody else missed someone and got to look at it." Evelyn's eyes filled before she could stop them. She crouched to hug the little girl and promised she would find a good place for it.
Graham escorted them through the lobby. At the doors, Hope hugged the old man around the waist and thanked him for the chair, the lights, and the bread rolls. He laughed and told her to return when the snow melted because the gardens were beautiful in June. Ethan shook his hand and thanked him, too, though Graham waved away the formality.
"You gave us a better Christmas Eve than we expected," Graham said. Ethan looked at the child sleeping against his shoulder. "I was going to say the same thing," he replied.
Outside, the valet brought the pickup under the canopy, its old red paint reflecting the golden hotel lights. Ethan settled Hope into the seat and fastened her belt, then stood beside the open door for a moment. Snow moved through the light beyond the driveway, and the air smelled of cedar and winter exhaust. He turned to find Evelyn standing beneath the canopy with her navy coat draped over the evening dress.