Michael shrugs. “I'm just the one with the marriage certificate. She's as much Charlotte Alexanders as she is Charlotte Summerford. She could just as easily have been Jenny Kimberley or Jenny Waterman. In fact, the only one she isn't, and never was, is the name she actually carried. She was never really Jenny Conners.”
Klempner winces then, brow creasing, looks out and down the mountain. Michael turns, following his gaze. “Something wrong?”
“I thought I saw something. It was…” He lifts a hand, shading his eyes…
“Oh, my God!” Charlotte launches from her seat like an ICBM, darting to where Cara sits perched up on the buffet table by the dessert. Pearly teeth beam out from a face plastered brown with a veneer of chocolate. Her hair stands in rigid punk-rocker spikes, stiff with cocoa and whipped cream.
One hand clutches brown and cream mush, handing it down to where, balanced by her, standing on a chair, Adam props himself with one hand on the table.