Thursday evening after dinner, Tamara asked me to retire to the living room while she cleared the table, something we otherwise always did together.
"I have something we need to discuss," she said. She liked mysteries and I learned early in our relationship to play along.
After she finished, she served
caffè corretto
with grappa in petite cups I had imported from Florence, where we discovered this wonderful digestif during our honeymoon. I gifted them to Tamara on our first wedding anniversary, wrapped in Japanese Chiyogami paper.
"Simon, do you remember Benedict Worthington?"
"Yes, darling, of course."
I chuckled to myself. I'd met him a month earlier at the Water Project fundraiser Tamara had organized. He was the most pretentious neckbeard I had ever met. He was Old Money, but his fortune had dwindled under his lackluster stewardship. Nevertheless, he thumbed his nose at those of us whose fortunes were stained with blood, sweat, and tears.
He was a twit, and I told Tamara so after she had introduced him, but he had generously donated time and money to her pet project, so I dropped it.
"He invited me to dinner tomorrow night."
"Ho!" I laughed. "I would love to have seen that ne'er-do-well's face when you declined."
"I don't want you to get angry, Simon, but I accepted his invitation."
"You did
what
