The Girl at the Banquet

“She was stealing food from your guests.”

The officer spoke loudly enough for the nearest tables to fall silent.

Beside him stood a little girl in an oversized brown coat. Rain clung to her hair. One shoelace had been tied into several knots, and both hands were pressed against a white napkin at her chest.

At the center of the room, seventy-year-old Edward Whitmore lowered his glass.

The annual Whitmore Foundation dinner had been underway for forty minutes. Behind him, a screen displayed photographs of the children his charity supported.

“How did she get inside?” asked his wife, Vivian.

“The service entrance,” the officer said.

The girl looked toward the kitchen doors.

“A lady said I could have a roll.”

“Which lady?” Vivian asked.

“The one carrying plates.”

Vivian glanced at the officer.

“Please handle this somewhere else.”

Edward almost turned back to his guests. Then he noticed how tightly the child was holding the napkin.

“What have you got there?”

The girl stepped back.

“It’s mine.”

“Nobody said it wasn’t.”

“The lady did.”

Her eyes moved briefly toward Vivian.

Edward set down his glass.

“Open your hands.”

The girl shook her head.

His voice softened.

“You can put it on the table. I won’t take it.”

After a moment, she laid the bundle beside an untouched dessert plate and unfolded the fabric.

Inside was an oval blue sapphire surrounded by small diamonds.

Edward reached for the edge of the table.

He knew that stone. He knew the uneven setting near its upper corner, where a jeweler had repaired it after his daughter dropped it on a tiled floor at seventeen.

He had chosen not to replace the setting because Caroline liked its tiny imperfection.

“It looks like somebody already loved it,” she had told him.

Now it lay inside a damp napkin beside a hungry child.

“Where did you get that?”

“My mama gave it to me.”

“When?”

“Before she died.”

Edward heard a chair move behind him.

Vivian had stood.

“What was your mother’s name?” he asked.

The girl rubbed her nose against her sleeve.

“Caroline.”

The name barely carried beyond the table.

Edward stared at her.

His daughter had been twenty-six when he lost her. There had been a car recovered from a flooded river, a search that produced no body, and a memorial service he remembered only in fragments.

That was eight years ago.

“How old are you?” he whispered.

“Seven.”

He looked at Vivian.

She was watching the child with an expression he had never seen on her before.

Not surprise.

Fear.