by July Hall
She spent the next fifteen minutes waiting for the dinner gong while Bradley drank his way through another glass and a half of champagne. After his uncle had soured his mood, he made little effort to speak to anyone else. Sandra only got to meet people who felt like saying hello on their own initiative.
Two of them were Bradley’s other uncle, Stephen, and Stephen’s boyfriend. Bradley had never said that Stephen was gay. Apparently Bradley hadn’t told her a lot of things—or was this just the kind of thing she didn’t “need” to know? Sandra remembered how Arnaud had said the Magisters were “conservative” and wondered what that even meant, as Stephen Magister offered her his hand and a big smile.
He was a little shorter than his brother, a little heavier too, and his eyes were more hazel than green. His dark hair was thinning on top. Apparently his two siblings had snapped up all the hauteur, leaving him with a general air of good humor. It was easy to see why Stephen was the VP instead of the CEO. Nobody would scramble to get out of his way.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
That would be because Bradley hadn’t given it. “Sandra,” she said, shaking his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Magister.”
“Stephen, please,” he said, to her relief. “Glad you could join us. I’m looking forward to getting to know you.”
“You’ll get the chance,” Bradley said, finishing his champagne. “We’ve been moved up the table for dinner. A coup has overthrown the Cookes.”
Stephen looked surprised. “Really? Charles was set on talking to Lawrence about Hong K—”
“That’s what Mom said. Uncle Charles just had a whim, I guess.”
“Charles doesn’t have whims.” Stephen laid a gentle hand on Bradley’s arm when the champagne tray passed by again. “Maybe it’s because they’re already three sheets to the wind. Let’s hold off until dinner, eh? Craig himself selected the wine for the second course.”
Craig smiled ruefully. He looked to be a good ten years younger than Stephen, and more handsome to boot, with chiseled cheekbones and a muscular build. “Rosalie even asked me to. I must really be part of the family.” He shook Sandra’s hand. “Craig Winslowe. Assistant VP of Finance at Dale Petrochemical.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sandra said, wondering how they’d met. Not just Craig and Stephen, but everyone here—they’d obviously all known each other for a long time. What had it been like to grow up in this rarefied atmosphere? It seemed like such a different world.
The dinner gong rang, and Sandra nearly jumped. She was grateful to take hold of Bradley’s arm as they followed Stephen and Craig into the dining room.
Her heart stopped when she saw her place card. Mr. Magister was at the head of the table, of course, and Sandra was directly on his right. She’d thought surely he would sit next to Bradley, his own nephew, but maybe that wasn’t how things were done? She wouldn’t know. There were probably formal rules, and she didn’t know them. Her parents threw dinner parties occasionally, but they weren’t anything like this.
Mr. Magister took his place at the head of the table, with Rosalie at the opposite end, and he gestured for everyone to be seated. As one, the men pulled out the ladies’ chairs. Sandra turned expectantly to Bradley, but he shook his head and pulled out the chair for the woman on his right.
Which meant that Mr. Magister himself pulled out Sandra’s chair. It felt surreal. And even though nobody else seemed to be saying it, as she sat down, Sandra murmured, “Thank you.”
He paused, his hands stilling on the chair. She could feel the heat of him at her back, looming over her, feeling impossibly close. If he moved his fingertips just an inch or two, he would be touching her shoulder, he could—what the hell was wrong with her?
Holding her breath, she waited, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he stepped away from her chair and addressed the table: “Thank you all for coming tonight. It’s good to see everyone. I understand that Marcel will be serving—what did he call it, Rosalie?”
From her seat, Rosalie beamed and said, “A meditation on goose.”
Everyone laughed. Even Sandra smiled, unable to stop picturing a goose in full lotus position.
“So our goose is cooked?” Stephen asked, leaning forward in his seat and grinning as everyone’s laughter mingled with groans.
“Let’s hope so,” Mr. Magister said dryly. Then he looked down at Sandra, meeting her eyes, and all the noise in the room seemed to fade away. She could hear only her heartbeat. Maybe she should be intimidated, or even frightened, but all she could think was, God, his eyes are green.
Mr. Magister seemed to hesitate, and for a moment she thought he might say something, introduce her to the rest of the table as Bradley’s new girlfriend. Instead, he said, “Enjoy the meal, everyone,” and sat back down, snapping open his linen napkin and placing it in his lap.
Right. Okay. Sandra felt the tension gathering between her shoulder blades and forced herself to relax. Everything was fine. Everything would be perfect.
The soup course had been laid on the table before the guests were seated. She was surprised to find it was a chilled lentil soup, which seemed like a humble dish for a party like this. Then she tasted the delicate combination of flavors meant to stimulate the palate, and accepted that she was in the hands of a master chef.
Servers in white coats silently orbited the table, offering white wine. When one approached her, Sandra placed her hand over her crystal glass and shook her head with a smile.
“Bradley,” Mr. Magister said, “does your friend not drink?”
Sandra turned to him in surprise, but he was looking steadily at Bradley, not at her.
“Uh…” Bradley had a mouth full of soup. He swallowed quickly. “No, she does. Don’t you want some wine, babe? It’s great.”
Everyone was looking at her except for Mr. Magister himself. She didn’t know what to say. She needed to stay in full command of her wits tonight. There was going to be plenty of wine with dinner, she’d already had a glass of champagne, and she wanted to wait for the next course.
The next course. Inspiration struck, and she smiled at Craig. “I think I’ll wait for the second course. I heard the wine selection is amazing.”
Craig smiled and tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Only time will tell, but yes, very.”
“Well worth waiting for,” Stephen added, looking briefly at his brother.
“Then I’m sold,” Sandra said. They both looked pleased, and she relaxed. The rest of the table appeared to as well, and people soon lapsed into polite, quiet conversation with their dinner partners.
Sandra wasn’t sure how that was supposed to work, since apparently her dinner partner was Mr. Magister and he didn’t seem inclined to talk to her at all. Bradley was stuck conversing with the woman on his right, Mrs. Cooke, who turned out to be as tipsy as she’d looked earlier. Well, with the way Bradley was enjoying the wine, maybe he could keep up with her. But Sandra was stuck with the world’s least voluble conversationalist. Mr. Magister didn’t even look up from his soup.
Maybe she could say something. Conversation was a two-way street, but she didn’t even know where to begin. How did you make small talk with a man like this? Ask about the weather? Maybe a casual remark about how his nephew hated working for him?
Or not. Sandra held her tongue. What with all the not-talking, she made her way through the soup pretty quickly and placed her spoon on the rim of her bowl. She wished that the second course would hurry up already. In the meantime, for lack of anything else to do, she admired the fine china pattern on the bowl and then checked out the silver candlesticks in front of her. Every tiny detail in the room was just right and spoke of fabulous luxury and taste. Even after working for Arnaud, she’d never been in such a dazzling home.
Was she every bit as out of place as she felt? She’d always dressed carefully and was willing to shell out good money for clothes and shoes. But compared to the other women here in their jewels and couture gowns, her dress seeme
d shabby and her bracelet felt cheap. She might as well have been invisible. No wonder Bradley had never been all that eager to introduce her to anybody. Had he known it would be like this? Couldn’t he have warned her?
Well, maybe he’d tried. He’d told her plenty of times that his uncle was an asshole. She should have listened better. But it was weird—though Mr. Magister ignored her, she felt attuned to his every movement. She couldn’t stop looking at his hands, remembering how it had felt to hold one of them for just a second. Electric.
She hadn’t even known she could react to a simple touch in such a way, as if her brain had just decided to step out for a second and let her hormones go on autopilot. Worse yet, she kept wondering what would happen if she touched him again. Could he somehow tell what she was thinking? Maybe that was why he wouldn’t look up from his soup. Oh, shit, why couldn’t somebody at this freaking table just talk to her?
Stephen, she couldn’t help but notice, kept glancing at Mr. Magister too. She could see the moment he officially decided to take pity on her, as he said, “Sandra, how did you and Bradley meet?”
Thank God. Sandra gave him a grateful smile and said, “We met at a party in Brooklyn.”
Stephen blinked. “I didn’t know you went to Brooklyn, Bradley,” he said, and she honestly had no idea if he was joking.
“I, uh, it was Jeremy’s idea,” Bradley said, looking up from his conversation with Mrs. Cooke. “He said he knew some people there.”
Sandra winced. That would be Jeremy Reynolds, one of Bradley’s old friends from Andover. Specifically, Jeremy had said he knew some “slutty art chicks” and had brought Bradley to meet a few of them. Bradley found Sandra instead, and they’d laughed and danced while Jeremy struck out with every girl there. Stephen probably didn’t need to know about that.
“An interior designer in Brooklyn,” Mr. Magister said, breaking his silence. “Did Miss Dane attend the Pratt Institute, Bradley?”
Huh?
But Bradley didn’t seem to think it was weird or rude at all that his uncle was addressing him instead of Sandra. “Yeah, she did,” he said. “She and her sister still live there.”
“What neighborhood?” Mr. Magister asked, still talking to Bradley. Sandra made sure she looked reasonably composed, although nobody seemed to be looking at her. Maybe she really was invisible.
“Cobble Hill,” Bradley said.
“Oh, I’ve been there once or twice,” Craig said, finally glancing at Sandra. Was that sympathy in his eyes? Had he run this gauntlet too? “It seemed like a fun place.”
Sandra opened her mouth. Beneath the table, Bradley put a firm hand on her knee. “Yeah, her parents own an apartment there. They lived there when they were young.”
“And where are they now?” Mr. Magister demanded. “What do they do?”
“Uh…” Sandra’s heart fell as she watched Bradley’s memory fail him. He’d met her parents a couple of times, and she’d talked about them often, but he was terrible with details. “They’re upstate. Her dad owns—lumber mills? Yeah, that’s right.”
Mr. Magister’s eyebrows raised, and he said, “Dane Lumber?”
“Yes,” Bradley said in relief.
“Oh, near the Adirondacks,” Stephen said, snapping his fingers and smiling. “I know the company. How marvelous. That’s beautiful country up there.”
“Does she—” Mr. Magister began.
“Very beautiful,” Sandra said to Stephen. “And very different from the city. My parents don’t come down to visit me often, they prefer it up there.” Then she turned to Mr. Magister and said politely, “I’m sorry. I think I interrupted you.”
Dead silence reigned. Bradley’s hand tightened hard on Sandra’s knee. Sandra looked at Mr. Magister and thought about the man who barged in on her without knocking, who didn’t say you’re welcome, and who didn’t even want to talk to her at dinner. Her mother had often told her that rudeness was no mark of high society; lack of manners was what made people common, no matter how much money they had, or how beautiful their eyes were, like jade or emeralds depending on the light…
Mr. Magister regarded her silently for a moment. Then he said, “What would you do to this apartment, Miss Dane?”
Sandra managed not to start. “Excuse me?”
“You’re an interior designer,” he said, tilting his head to the side. Around the table, the waiters began circulating again, removing the soup bowls and plates. “I’m curious. If I gave you free rein in this apartment, what would you change?”
“Charles!” Rosalie gasped. “You can’t be thinking of—” Mr. Magister held up his hand, and she lapsed into silence.
Scrambling for equilibrium, Sandra fought her instinct to drop her gaze. She’d been fighting her instincts since childhood. Playground bullies, mean teachers, catty coworkers—they counted on victims who reacted out of reflex instead of taking time to think.
And she was done with playground bullies.
Keeping her eyes on Mr. Magister and noticing that he had a slightly wonky nose (had it ever been broken?), she said, “Do you like the apartment?”
Mr. Magister raised his eyebrows. “I’ve lived here for twelve years. I suppose I must.” Everyone chuckled uneasily.
“Then I wouldn’t change anything,” Sandra said. “It’s your home. You should like how it looks. If you do, don’t change it.”
“That doesn’t seem like wise advice for your line of business,” he observed.
Sandra shrugged. “Lots of people don’t like their homes. Or they did, but now they want a change to something they’ll like even better. That’s why they come to Arnaud.”
Mr. Magister leaned forward just the slightest bit. Her skin prickled. “All right. Suppose this was your home. What would you do?”
From the corner of her eye, Sandra saw Stephen and Craig exchange a glance. Maybe they thought this was as odd as she did. She could feel the currents all around her, the things people knew but weren’t saying, and she wondered how the hell she was supposed to pass this test. What could she really say? If he’d asked something more sensible, like How would you redecorate with the latest trends? she could do something with that. But this?
She placed her hand on top of Bradley’s and squeezed until he loosened his grip on her knee. “It’s hard to say,” she admitted. “It seems like your apartment was decorated with such purpose—it feels really coherent, you know? If it was mine, I’d have to focus on the things that meant the most to me, whatever I really cared about, and work outward from that.” Now she let her gaze wander the dining room, looking up at the crystal chandelier that caught and reflected the light. “It’s wonderful. I wish I could talk to the original designer. Who was it?”
Then she nearly yelped in pain as Bradley dug his fingernails into her flesh. The silence that fell over the table now was thick and oppressive; she saw people looking awkwardly at the fixtures on the table or taking quick sips of their wine. Crap. What had she said?
“Dear Eleanor supervised all the decorating,” Rosalie said, still wearing her smile, though her eyes glared daggers at Sandra. “Charles’s late wife.”
Oh. Oh, shit. Sandra’s eyes widened. She glanced back at Mr. Magister, who was still watching her, his expression unreadable. He didn’t seem to be angry, but for a second, she saw something painful flash in his eyes. Then it was gone.
“I’m sorry,” she said, working to keep her voice even. “It’s beautiful.”
“Hear, hear,” Stephen said quickly. “And here comes Craig’s wine!”
Bradley let go of Sandra’s knee with a vaguely apologetic mumble. The waiters had returned with bottles of more white wine, and this time Sandra gratefully let them fill her glass. She took a sip, inhaling the scent as she did, and she had to admit it was glorious. Crisp, light, and a little sweet.
“Well?” Craig asked her across the table in a stage whisper.
“Terrific,” she whispered back. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to thank him for the wine
or for breaking that awful moment. “What is it?”
“Château d’Yquem, the 2005.” Craig turned to Mr. Magister and added, “Alexandre sent it. He said to tell you hello.”
“I’ll send him my thanks.” Mr. Magister took a sip and raised an eyebrow. Sandra could no longer see even a hint of distress on his face. “And I’ll be entirely sincere.”
“Who’s Alexandre?” Sandra whispered to Bradley.
“The Comte de…something. His family used to own the wine estate,” he muttered.
Jesus Christ.
The rest of the meal passed without further catastrophe. Talk first turned to business, and though she listened, Sandra understood almost none of it. Still, it carried everyone through the salad and then through the third course, which was the promised meditation on goose: a fat bird crisply roasted and glazed with port wine. A palate-cleansing lemon sorbet followed, and dessert was a green apple soufflé, accompanied by a cheese plate. Dinner drew to a close with coffee and tiny truffles made from dark chocolate so rich that Sandra felt sinful for looking at them.
Did Mr. Magister eat like this every day? Sandra couldn’t imagine it. He didn’t look as if he had a spare ounce of fat. He wasn’t skinny either, though. Just…trim. She glanced at his hands as he sipped his coffee, at his long fingers, and remembered the touch of his palm against hers. For some stupid reason, her heart began pounding again. He’d been so warm.
As stomachs filled, tongues loosened, and the discussion became more personal: Sandra heard all about how so-and-so’s eldest son was doing at crew and how such-and-such’s niece excelled at dressage. Nobody seemed to just play basketball or run cross-country.
Mr. Magister withdrew from the conversation then. He hadn’t been all that chatty in the first place, but on the subject of personal lives, he appeared to have nothing to say at all. Judging from the way he surreptitiously looked at his watch, he had no interest either.
Maybe he didn’t have a personal life to talk about. Cringing, Sandra remembered asking about his decorator. Dear Eleanor, Rosalie had said, Charles’s late wife.