Chapter 8 - Entering the Ballroom
The reception hall was loud, filled with the clinking of champagne flutes and the swell of a live brass swing band.
Over two hundred guests occupied twenty large round tables decorated with crystal glassware and silver centerpieces.
My father was sitting at the primary head table alongside Richard Vance and several high-profile Richmond real estate investors.
He was in the middle of telling a grandiose story about his early business investments when the heavy double doors clicked.
I stepped into the doorway wearing my full Navy dress whites, my combination cover resting securely under my arm.
The light from the crystal chandeliers bounced off the polished gold buttons and multi-colored array of combat ribbons.
For a few seconds, nobody noticed my arrival over the loud music and boisterous chatter fillling the massive room.
Then, a waiter carrying a tray of drinks suddenly froze, staring at the high-ranking officer standing in the entrance.
A hush began to spread from the tables nearest to the door, ripple by ripple, across the entire ballroom floor.
My mother turned around from her chair, saw me, and her face turned completely white with immediate horror.
My father’s glass of expensive bourbon paused midway to his mouth, his eyes widening in absolute, blinding rage.
He set the glass down so hard on the white tablecloth that liquid spilled over the edge onto the linen.
Melanie gasped loudly from the head table beside her new husband, her mouth hanging open in complete disbelief.
"What is she doing?" Melanie hissed loudly enough for the surrounding guests to hear clearly.
My father stood up from his chair, his face flushed dark red as he began marching directly across the room toward me.
"I told you not to bring that damn circus in here!" he spat in a harsh whisper as he closed the distance.
"You are embarrassing this entire family in front of the most important people in this state!"
"Take that ridiculous outfit off right now or get out of my sight!"
I stood my ground, staring down at him with the cold, unyielding composure that had commanded nuclear aircraft carriers.
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"This is not an outfit, Arthur," I said, my voice cutting through his anger like a cold steel blade.
"This is my life."
