A private chalet.
A celebrity chef.
Snowmobile photos.
And a family announcement that Mason would soon join my father’s investment firm as a “future partner.”
I had only been invited at the last minute.
Invited.
Not wanted.
Three days earlier, Patricia had called and sighed,
“Your father insists you come. Just please don’t make things uncomfortable by talking about your little career problems.”
My “career problems” were what she called the two years after my mother died.
The years when I sold my condo.
Stopped attending family dinners.
And stopped correcting people when they assumed I had run out of money.
At check-in, Patricia collected four first-class boarding passes from the agent.
Then she handed me mine.
31B.
Economy.
I looked at her.
“Economy?”
Mason grinned.
“Come on, Nora. Builds character.”
Patricia leaned closer.
“First class is for people who contribute. You can still help with the luggage.”
