Pipes needing replacement. A roof with three more winters in it, maybe four. If nothing changed by spring, Saint Cecilia's would close. The children would be redistributed. The piano in the chapel would be sold or thrown out.
Harper sat now on the edge of her bed holding the metronome. A small voice came from the doorway. "Harper?" It was Lily. Six years old, the youngest girl at St.
Cecilia's. She was holding the door frame with one hand and a stuffed rabbit with the other. "You going somewhere fancy?" "Yes, Lily." "You scared?"
Harper thought about lying. Decided not to. "Yes." Lily considered this carefully. "You going to come back, right?"
"I'm going to come back." "Promise?" "Promise." Downstairs, Sister Margaret called her name one last time. The van to Manhattan was waiting.
Harper stood up. She slipped the metronome into the inside pocket of her coat. She didn't know why. She just knew she could not leave it behind. The van pulled up to the Plaza Hotel at 6:45 in the evening.
Charles Hartwell III was already inside. He had arrived 20 minutes earlier through the side entrance because Charles Hartwell did not stand in lines and did not enter rooms through the same doors as everyone else. He was 58 years old, 6'2, silver at the temples, dark at the back. A tuxedo cut by a tailor in London who had measured him for the first time when he was 23 and had measured him every year since. He did not shake hands.
He extended two fingers. He had been doing it since Yale, and Yale was where he had learned that a handshake was a small surrender of power, and two fingers was not. The Hartwell Foundation Gala was in its 41st year. His grandfather had started it. His father had grown it.
He had inherited it. The way he had inherited everything. Without ever asking for it and without ever being told he might not deserve it. A waiter approached with a tray of champagne. Hartwell did not look at him.
He took a glass. "Thank you, sir." The waiter said. Hartwell did not respond. The waiter, a young black man named Devon, set the tray down on a side table and walked away without expression.
He had been working Hartwell Foundation events for 3 years. He had stopped expecting eye contact in his first month. At Hartwell's table, his entourage was already seated. His second wife, Eleanor, 26 years younger, scrolling on her phone. His chief of staff, a man named Bradley Whitcomb, 32, on his third whiskey.
Two business partners from the bank, a real estate attorney, a retired senator. Bradley raised his glass. "To another year of saving the underprivileged, sir." Hartwell did not raise his glass. He sipped.
"Bradley." "Sir?" "Slow down on the whiskey." "Yes, sir." "You embarrass yourself.
You embarrass me." "Understood, sir." Bradley smiled. He did not slow down on the whiskey. He understood the rule was not for events with photographers.
He had not yet seen a photographer in the room. Catherine Wilson appeared at the table. Late 60s, white hair pinned back. Old New York money. Older than Hartwell's by two generations and quieter about it.
She co-chaired the gala because her late husband's foundation matched the Hartwell Foundation's pledge dollar for dollar. "Charles. The youth honorees arrived." Six of them this year. Hartwell looked up from his menu.
"The what?" "The youth honorees, from the sponsorship program. I asked them to attend in person this year. I thought it would be meaningful for the donors to meet them." A beat passed.
Hartwell did not smile. "Catherine, we don't bring the applicants to the gala." "We do this year, Charles." "On whose authority?" "Mine."
She held his gaze for three full seconds. Then she walked away. Hartwell drained his champagne. He set the empty glass down too hard. Bradley noticed.
"Problem, sir?" "No." "Sir, with respect, if there's an issue with the program, I can speak to Mrs. Wilson." "There's no issue, Bradley."
"There's a process." "The process is the applicants stay on the page. They do not show up in person and breathe on the donors." "Understood, sir." "They are line items.
They are not guests." "Yes, sir." Hartwell signaled for another champagne. Devon, the waiter, brought it without speaking. The retired senator leaned in.
"How much does the foundation give out a year now, Charles?" "$18 million." "And the program?" Hartwell smiled finally. "The program gives out $4 million."
"It receives $60 million in pledged donations." The senator chuckled. "Beautiful." "It is a business, Walter. A very respectable business."
Bradley laughed too loudly. Hartwell did not look at him. Across the ballroom, near the entrance, six children stood in a small group. Sister Margaret was straightening Harper's collar. Harper was holding her own elbow with her opposite hand, the way 15-year-old girls do when they are trying not to look as nervous as they are.
Hartwell glanced over. His eyes found Harper. He held the look for exactly 1 second. Then he turned back to his table. "Bradley."
"Sir?" "Make a note. After the gala, I want a conversation with Catherine about how the youth program is administered going forward." "Yes, sir." "Catherine has opinions.
That is fine." "Opinions are not the same as authority." "Yes, sir." The chandeliers above the room held 12,000 crystals. They had been hand polished that morning by a crew of 14, none of whom had been introduced to any of the guests.