I took my seat and watched the family orbit Cormac like he was the sun. Bridget kept touching his arm, laughing at nothing, glancing around to make sure everyone saw the ring box outline in his blazer pocket. My mother had used the good china. My father had bought champagne. Nobody had asked me a single question, which was fine, because I was watching Cormac’s face, and Cormac’s face was doing something interesting. Every few minutes his eyes flicked toward me and then away, like a man trying very hard to place a face he already knew.

Because he did know me. It took me half the dinner to be sure, but by the time the champagne was poured I had it. Eight months earlier, a man had commissioned me to restore a rare 1950s jukebox, a family heirloom he said belonged to his late grandfather. He had paid a deposit, then vanished, leaving the finished piece and a four-thousand-dollar balance unpaid. He had used a different last name. But the smirk was the same. The consultant my sister was about to marry was the client who had stiffed me. And just as Cormac rose to his feet, tapping his glass to propose, I set down my fork and said, calmly, “Actually, before you do that, Cormac and I have met before.”