Page 108 of Keller

Memorandum received. Distribution logged.

I stare at the confirmation for a long moment. The review is no longer quiet.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Keller

The Krewe of Muses and Hand-Decorated Shoes: Founded in 2000, the Krewe of Muses is known for its all-female membership and its signature throw—individually hand-decorated high-heeled shoes. These coveted keepsakes transformed the tradition of “throws” into collectible art, reinforcing the krewe’s identity while redefining spectacle within Carnival culture.

The reception occupiesthe forty-second floor of a glass tower overlooking the Houston Ship Channel. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, container cranes stand in silhouette against the fading light. Red and green navigation markers blink along the waterway. The room smells of aged leather and expensive cologne.

A string quartet plays something classical in the corner. Vivaldi, maybe. The kind of music that fills space without demanding attention.

I stand near the bar with a whiskey neat, watching the room work. I'm not much a day-drinker usually, but it comes with the territory at these things.

There are thirty people, invitation-only. Most of the suits in here are foundation board members and private equity principals with firm handshakes and careful smiles. Civic power brokers who measure influence by proximity.

Ridge holds court near the windows with Margaret Caldwell and two men I recognize from the energy sector. His posture radiates authority without effort. He's the CEO of Stone Intermodal now, the public steward of the Argentum restoration expansion. The face of what our father built and Ridge inherited.

I'm not the face. I'm the reader.

A woman in gray silk approaches the bar beside me. It's Becky Vance, board chair emeritus for three regional foundations. She's old money with older connections.

"Mr. Stone. Your brother speaks highly of the preservation timeline."

"He should. The plans are exceptional."

"I understand you've been involved in vendor selection."

I let the corner of my mouth lift. "I attend meetings, but we all know Ridge makes the decisions."

She laughs softly. We both know that isn’t entirely true. In rooms like this, modesty is currency. You downplay what you control and let everyone pretend they’re not being measured.

It never came naturally to me, but I’ve learned.

I watch the room while we talk, tracking who leans in when Ridge speaks and note who asks follow-up questions about shipping corridors wrapped in philanthropic language. A man from Meridian Capital lingers too close. His questions probe beyond casual interest.

The words float beneath discussions of historic preservation and community investment. I file them away.

Ridge excuses himself from the window group and moves toward me. His phone vibrates in his jacket pocket. He pulls it out and glances at the screen.

His expression doesn't change. But something shifts in his jaw. A tightening I've learned to read over thirty-two years.

"Excuse me." He steps past Becky Vance with a nod. "Business matter."

He disappears down a corridor toward the private offices.

I turn back to Becky and smile. "Where were we?"

"Vendor selection."

"Right. The ironwork specialists from Charleston have an exceptional portfolio. I don't know if you've seen their renderings, but if you haven't, definitely take a look."

The conversation continues and the string quartet transitions to something a little more upbeat while the donors circulate. Copious amounts of alcohol flows, making the voices louder and the hand gestures more pronounced.

Ridge reappears in the doorway and he does one single chin nod in my direction, saying something silently, but I'm not quite sure what it is. I follow him into the room with my eyes. His shoulders are set differently now, tighter, his stride carrying purpose without urgency.

He crosses to Margaret Caldwell first, says a brief word. Whatever he tells her makes her eyebrows rise. Then he moves to the next group, shakes some hands, slaps someone on the shoulder.