They left slowly at first. Then faster.
Women picked up their hats. Men put down their champagne glasses on the bar, still half full. Nobody said goodbye to Laurelai. A few people stopped by the porch steps on their way to their cars and said quietly, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Vance,” or “I didn’t know.”
Tiffany Rourke stopped and touched my arm.
“I’m so glad you’re well,” she said. She meant it.
The caterers packed up the crab cakes. The young man from the rental company started folding up the
