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Selma Quintero appeared from the elevator in a flowing jacket and
layers of beaded necklaces that clicked when she turned to us. She’d had
short salt-and-pepper hair when my parents had her for dinners years ago.
Now she was totally gray.
When she came toward me, Ella gasped.
“Logan.” She offered her hand.
“Selma, this is Ella.”
My wife had a deer-in-headlights look I’d never seen before.
“You must be Mrs. Crowne.”
“She’s—”
“Yes,” Ella said, letting Selma use the wrong name. “I am.”
“Pleasure.”
My wife shoved me away to shake Selma’s hand, then threw eyedaggers
at me.
What the hell? I’d invited Selma for her and she seemed mad about it.
Mandy reappeared. Mike came back with drinks. Everyone was there. I
followed the hostess to our table, feeling as if I’d dodged a bullet only to
wind up in front of a firing squad.
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