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By the time my father told me to stop pretending I had money, I had already signed payroll for thirty-eight hundred people that morning. I was still wearing the navy polo I used on overnight delivery routes, my hair smelled faintly of diesel, and there was a ten-year-old’s telescope riding in the passenger seat of my ordinary gray sedan. None of that mattered to Gordon Mercer. He took one look at me entering the ballroom of the Hawthorne Club in Charlotte and decided, as he had for years, that I was the daughter he needed to explain away.
Part 2 The first thing I noticed was not my father’s face. It was Lily’s fork stopping halfway to her mouth. The photograph on the...
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