Page 12 of Glass Spinner

Lianne chuckled again, this time a little more subdued. The moment passed. Someone commented on the wine pairing. Conversation shifted to the upcoming speeches.

Kathleen took a slow breath. She hadn’t touched her drink. Her fingers were still curled under her napkin. “You didn’t have to do that,” she murmured.

“Yes, I did,” Marise said softly. “And I will again.”

Kathleen’s expression didn’t change much. But she turned slightly toward Marise, her posture loosening enough to suggest she was feeling easier.

It wasn’t trust. Not yet. But it was close.

The first course arrived—delicately plated greens with a citrus vinaigrette and a shard of crisped goat’s cheese. The conversation ebbed and flowed around the table in low, refinedvoices, but Marise kept one ear trained on Kathleen’s breathing, her hands, the stillness in her shoulders.

Kathleen barely touched her food.

Greg, meanwhile, grew bolder with every swallow of his wine. “You know,” he said, cutting into his roast duck with far too much enthusiasm, “what you’re doing could make someone very, very rich. I assume you've had offers?”

Kathleen hesitated. Her fork hovered over her plate.

Marise interjected with a light laugh. “That depends. Are we talking about offers from tech venture capitalists, or eccentric billionaires who want to terraform Montana?”

The table chuckled politely. Greg grinned, but didn’t back down. “I’m saying that someone will turn it into a product. Might as well be the person who invented it.”

Kathleen blinked slowly. “It’s not a product,” she said. “It’s a system. A living system. It’s not meant to sit in someone’s penthouse beside a potted fern.”

Marise smiled behind her wineglass.

Greg raised his hands. “Touché. I’m just trying to understand. The public's curious, that's all.”

Kathleen gave a nod that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She remained silent.

Marise leaned in slightly, turning her body so Greg’s line of sight no longer quite reached Kathleen. It was subtle, practiced and cut off the angles, redirecting the flow of conversation back to the board members on her left.

Dessert came and went—some lemon and elderflower thing that Marise barely tasted. She kept her eyes on the room, scanning the small signals: Kathleen's posture, her breath, the twitch of her fingers against her napkin.

By the time the speeches began, Kathleen sat with her shoulders drawn slightly forward and her hands folded carefullyin her lap, not moving. She wasn’t even trying to feign interest anymore.

The lights dimmed as the foundation chair stepped to the microphone. Applause followed, polite and measured, and then the usual platitudes began—about progress, innovation, the future of sustainability. Kathleen’s name was mentioned briefly, and the table turned to clap for her.

Marise leaned in quietly. “Smile now, or they’ll think you hate saving the planet.”

Kathleen gave her a brief, sideways look that was half annoyance and half amusement. She smiled.

The applause faded. The lights rose again. Plates cleared. A quartet began playing a tasteful instrumental version of something vaguely jazz.

And then, predictably, the dance floor opened.

Couples rose. Laughter began to hum under the lights. Greg stood and offered a hand to Lianne, who took it with a theatrical smile. Even the board wives moved delicately toward the edge of the floor with their partners.

Kathleen didn’t move.

Marise turned toward her, ready to have a quiet talk while the others were dancing, but Kathleen beat her to it. “Can we leave?” she asked firmly. “I’ve...had enough.”

Marise nodded. “Of course.” She pulled out her phone and called a cab.

They slipped from their table quietly and headed out the door, the echo of music fading behind them as they walked down the hallway.

“I hate the dancing part,” Kathleen said. “Everyone’s enjoying themselves and I don’t know the steps.”

Marise glanced curiously at her. “Was there anything you liked about tonight?”