Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

young people, but they were all with their parents. I paid the cab driver and emerged from the taxi so slowly I was sure he thought I was attending a function I despised. After he drove off, I stood there hoping to spot Michael Sutton, but he was nowhere in sight. Finally, I walked to the front entrance and followed some people through the doors.
    Small groups were gathered in the lobby. So many people appeared to know each other. I saw no one who looked as alone as I was. I waded through the sea of laughter and conversation, making my way slowly toward the recital. Signs directed me. When I reached the doorway of the room, I found an elderly lady sitting at a desk with a list of names before her. She looked up at me expectantly and smiled. Were we supposed to have tickets?
    "Good evening," she said and waited for me to give her my name.
    "Good evening. I'm Dawn Cutler," I said.
    "Cutler?" She looked down at her list of invited guests. "Cutler," she repeated. "I'm sorry, I don't . . ."
    I felt the blood rush into my face as other people around me stared and waited impatiently to go ahead.
    "You were sent an invitation?" the elderly lady asked me, still smiling in a friendly manner.
    "I'm . . . I was invited by Michael Sutton," I stammered quickly.
    "Oh. A guest of Mr. Sutton's. Yes, yes. Go right on inside and take whatever seat you like," she said.
    I moved into the recital room quickly and gazed around, searching desperately now for Michael. I knew no one else here and didn't know where to go. I tried not to look confused and frightened, but it seemed to me that everyone in the room was looking at me: people who were seated turned to look back, others entering paused to gaze at me, none smiling. I was sure I stood out like an ugly weed in a bed of roses.
    Finally, out of desperation, I hurried down the right aisle and took the first available seat. I looked back at the doorway, hoping to see Michael Sutton enter. The moment he did, I thought I would go to him. Finally, just before the recital was to begin, he did come, dressed in a tuxedo and black tie. But I didn't move. On his arm was a beautiful woman with flaming red hair, her ears dripping diamonds. An excited usher greeted them immediately and led them down the other side of the recital hall to reserved seats right up front.
    I was stunned. He didn't even look for me; surely he hadn't even asked if I had arrived, for he would know I had and sought me out, I thought. Did he expect I would be waiting for him in the lobby? He hadn't said so. Was I supposed to go to him now? When I strained my neck to look over the people in front of me, I saw there were no empty seats beside him.
    Before I could do anything, the recital began and I had no time to think. It consisted of stars from the Metropolitan Opera House singing famous arias. The voices and the music were so overwhelming that while the recital was conducted, I forgot everything else: forgot about being embarrassed or alone, forgot about sitting among strangers who seemed very disinterested in me, even forgot about Michael Sutton, who appeared to have overlooked the fact that he had invited me.
    After the applause had ended and the crowd had begun to make its way out of the recital hall, I lingered so that Michael would see me. So many people were gathered around him as he made his way up the aisle; I didn't know how I would get to him, short of elbowing my way through the pack of admirers. He didn't see me and I was too embarrassed to shout out. Instead, I bowed my head and followed the audience to the wine and cheese reception.
    Waiters and waitresses moved around a big room carrying trays of wine in tall, thin glasses and trays of hors d'oeuvres. I took a glass of wine and waited to catch sight of Michael. Finally, I saw him in the middle of a crowd of people all the way across the room. I made my way as gracefully as I could, even though I felt like running to him. When I got there, I stood back, waiting for him to notice me. It seemed to take ages because his eyes were fixed on the beautiful redheaded woman, who was with him. She kept her arm threaded through his and threw her head back to laugh and nudged him with her shoulder every time he said something.
    Finally, he turned my way. His eyes brightened with recognition.
    "Dawn," he cried. He held his hand out and I took it to move through the crowd. "Wasn't it wonderful?" he asked, his face flushed from the wine and the conversation, as well as the