Marianne came through the lounge door at ten after eight, late enough that people looked up and early enough that nobody could accuse her of making an entrance. The black dress was simple, but it fit as if it had been waiting for her all week.
Her son had told her not to go. A fundraiser full of old neighbors, club men, and church wives was no place for a woman freshly divorced at sixty-one. Marianne had laughed into the phone and said she was done asking rooms for permission.
Near the piano, Warren stopped talking mid-sentence. He had known her when she wore cardigans and kept her voice low. This woman moved differently. Slower. Warmer. More dangerous because she was calm about it.
Marianne saw him watching. Of course she did. She let her eyes pass over him once, then came back, just enough to make his glass feel heavy in his hand.
By the time he crossed the room, the gossip had already started.
"You knew this would happen," he said.
"No," Marianne said, leaning close as the piano began again. "I knew people would pretend it shouldn't."
Warren looked toward the corner where two women had already gone quiet. Marianne did not. She kept her attention on him, which felt worse and better at the same time.
He asked if she wanted a drink. She said she wanted honesty first. That stopped him cold. The lounge was full of people acting civilized, but her voice had put something private between them, something with a pulse.
When he finally smiled, it was not polished. It was nervous. Marianne liked him better that way.
