I wasn’t sure who would come after what happened.
Almost everyone came.
The foundation donors came. The neighbors came. Father Dominic came and ate three plates of pasta. Most of my mother’s relatives came, and spent the whole first hour whispering in little groups.
Harold Benning, the bank chairman, came over to me before dinner. He was a tall, stiff man in his sixties. He’d never spoken more than five words to me in my life.
“Mrs….?” He paused.
“Emma’s fine,” I said. “Mrs. Kowalski, technically, as of an hour ago.”
“Emma.” He cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology. I’ve sat on that foundation’s advisory board for six years. I signed off on the annual reports. I never once looked closely.” He shook his head. “I should have. It’s my job to look.”
“They’re good at making people not look,” I said.
