1
IRIS
My thumb is bleeding.
Even without looking down, I can feel the warm slide of it inside my latex glove. A thorn from one of the white Avalanche roses snagged me ten minutes ago, slicing through the rubber and into the skin.
I ignore it.
The archway towering above me in the Grand Hall of the Waldorf Museum is eighteen feet of cascading white wisteria, cream-colored roses, and seeded eucalyptus. The sweetness is dense enough to coat the back of my throat. It masks the chemical bite of floor wax beneath my heels, but it can’t mask the nausea curling in my gut.
This arch costs fifty thousand dollars. It has to be flawless.
“To the left,” I say, my voice echoing in the cavernous, marble-floored expanse. “No, Marcus, stop. You’re bunching the garland. It needs to drape, not hang. It’s supposed to look like it grew out of the stone, not like we stapled it there.”
Marcus, the venue manager, lets his head drop back against the top rung of the ladder. He rubs the bridge of his nose, the exhaustion of a twelve-hour shift radiating off him.
“Ms. Hale,” he says, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “It’s straight. Nobody is going to be measuring the curvature of the wisteria with a protractor.”
I step back, scanning the arch. I don’t look for what’s right. I look for what will fail. That’s my talent and my curse. To anyone else, this is a masterpiece. To me, it is a collection of potential errors waiting to happen.
“The President of the Bar Association will be walking through that arch in three days,” I say, keeping my tone level. “Senator Caldwell will be standing directly beneath it for the photo op. If it looks asymmetrical in the New York Times, Marcus, people will notice.”
My father will notice.
Marcus grumbles something under his breath, but he shifts the garland to the left. The tension in the greenery releases, and the flowers cascade properly, framing the entrance to the ballroom in a smooth, effortless sweep.
“Better,” I say, releasing an anxious breath.
I peel off the torn latex gloves and toss them aside. I wipe my hands on my apron, checking the Cartier watch on my wrist. The hands read five past eight. My stomach twists.
I’ve been here since six in the morning. My feet are throbbing in my heels. I haven’t eaten since breakfast—just a dry piece of toast and three cups of black coffee—but hunger is distant, irrelevant with my mile-long to-do list.
I walk the perimeter of the room, assessing. A hydrangea is leaning three degrees too far forward. I adjust it and pick a microscopic piece of lint off a white tablecloth.
“Marcus,” I call out, nodding toward the VIP Study. “The orange lilies. The buds are starting to swell. The second they peel back, I want the anthers plucked and bagged. If a single grain of that rust pollen touches the mahogany table or the Senator’s suit, I will have your head. Do you understand?”
Marcus rolls his eyes but mumbles an affirmative and heads to the study with a pair of floral snips.
The brass handles on the main doors click, and the massive panels swing inward.
I stop moving, the vastness of the hall suddenly feeling suffocatingly small.
Judge William Hale enters the hall. He’s not alone. He’s flanked by a small entourage: two security guards, a nervous-looking aide, and the museum’s Director of Donor Relations.
My father is smiling.
It’s the smile that got him here, warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes, projecting the image of “America’s Grandfather.” He pauses to shake the Director’s hand, throwing his head back at a joke I can’t quite hear. He looks distinguished, benevolent, and utterly charming.
Then, the Director bows out, and the aide scurries away.
The doors click shut. The audience is gone.
The smile vanishes from his face like a light switch flicked off.
He turns toward me. His posture shifts, growing taller and colder as he walks across the marble floor, theclack-clack-clackof his expensive dress shoes echoing like gunshots in the empty room.
“Father,” I say, offering the soft, demure smile I practiced in the mirror for years. “We’re just finishing the lighting checks.”
