The other attendees would be rich potential donors to her campaign, so the event would be very fancy. WE CAN’T SAY NO, George’s last text said. Well. Who was I to argue? That night I pulled up to the Boylestown Yacht Club at precisely five thirty, as George’s e-mail had instructed. Already the parking lot was buzzing with activity, with well-dressed people climbing out of cars and limos and walking a red carpet to get inside. I watched curiously, smoothing my own simple green dress over my knees. I hadn’t been to many fancy fund-raising dinners in my short life, and despite Bess’s fashion advice, I wasn’t totally convinced I’d dressed the part. I was pulled from my worries by a sharp rap on my passenger window. It was Bess—expertly made up and wearing a fashionable black cocktail dress, of course. I clicked the unlock button on my door and gestured for her to get into the car. George was right behind her, wearing a red skirt and striped shell, and she pulled open the back door and climbed in.
