by Ann McMan
“What do you mean?”
“I saw them pour Lorrie’s glass from a bottle of Smoking Loon.”
Grace chuckled. “Her fame must precede her.”
“No doubt.”
Grace glanced down at her chest. “I wonder if these name tags are color coded?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me—especially if Lucretia Fletcher had anything to do with it. Mine is probably emitting toxic doses of radon.”
The bartender handed Grace her glass. It was a generous pour—at least a third of the bottle.
“Thank you.” She beamed at him.
“No sweat, Dr. Warner,” he said. “When you’re ready for a refill, you come find me, okay?” He pointed at his name tag. “My name is Derek.” He walked off.
“See?” CK commented. “Told you. Obviously, Abbie put you on a special list.”
Grace didn’t want to discuss anything related to where Abbie might ‘put her’—especially not after the other night. She thought she should’ve won an Oscar for the practiced nonchalance of her predawn exit from the president’s house the morning after.
Another bartender delivered CK’s refill. She was blond, gorgeous and about eight feet tall.
“Thanks, Pamela,” CK said. “Great will be your reward.”
“Where’d they get this waitstaff?” Grace whispered after Pamela glided off. “They look like they belong on the red carpet at the Scandinavian Film Awards.”
“Yeah,” CK agreed. “It’s clear they ain’t homegrown. Lucretia must’ve hired out to impress her new boss.”
“Where is our hostess, anyway?” Grace looked around the assembly of highbrow muckety-mucks and academic worker bees milling about the patio.
“Host, you mean,” CK corrected. “This is Mitch’s shindig. He’s over there, schmoozing Abbie’s parents.”
Abbie’s parents? Grace looked over at the small group CK indicated. Mitchell Ware, chair of the board of trustees, was holding forth in grand fashion—probably boring the Abbots to tears with his tired superlatives about the fabled history of St. Albans. M. and Mme Abbot looked like patrician pictures of polite disinterest. M. Abbot was tall and suave, with a slender build and wavy white hair. He was tastefully dressed in what had to be a Sartorialto creation. Grace recognized the distinctive cut because she’d once lucked out and acquired one of their hand-tailored jackets at an estate auction in Trois-Rivières. She’d had no idea how great her fortune was until she got home and researched the label. Since then, she’d become a true aficionado of the haute men’s fashion gurus who custom-made all of their suits. She had a plan to make one of Ochre’s captors an aspiring sartor, employed by the high-end Montréal house of couture. She had grand designs for how their multi-tiered dialogues about how shape, texture, color and the fluidity of form could breathe life into once inanimate rolls of fabric—transforming them into living works of art—and how it could mirror Ochre’s own path to legend.
Yes. Grace studied Abbie’s father. He stood with one hand casually inserted into the front pocket of his trousers—giving the appearance that he was comfortable—with himself, if not the circumstances. His poise reminded Grace of actor David Niven—a perfect gentleman who handled any situation with complete composure.
She decided she liked him.
Mme Abbot, on the other hand, was trickier. She looked more . . . formidable.
She was shorter than Abbie, and quite beautiful—like her daughter. She, too, was elegantly dressed. And she had stylishly cut, graying blond hair. That part was a surprise. Abbie’s darker coloring must’ve hailed from her father’s side of the family. But there was something else about Mme Abbot that differed from Abbie. Grace decided it was her dour expression—a shame really, since it distracted from an otherwise striking appearance. Unlike her husband, Madame did not look at ease or happy to be there. It led Grace to wonder if the disapproving set to her features was situational, or a more general feature of her disposition.
She reminded Grace of a classic Hitchcock woman—beautiful, but icy and aloof.
She took a deep breath and turned back toward CK. “Where is our honoree, then?”
“Right behind you,” a low-pitched, made-for-late-night-FM-radio voice replied.
Grace started and turned around to face Abbie—who was jaw-droppingly, show-stoppingly, death-defyingly gorgeous in a form-fitting black dress and high-heeled pumps. Grace stood gawking up at her with all the refinement of a small-town doughboy, getting his first look at the Eiffel Tower.
“Hail to the chief,” she croaked.
Abbie threw back her head and laughed. It made the tiny rubies that dangled from the ends of her Egyptian-patterned silver earrings dance and sway.
She was a perfect synthesis of high-class elegance and old-money refinement.
She also looked hot as hell . . .
Oh, yeah. She was all that and a bag of chips.
Grace thrust the bouquet of flowers at her. “My mother told me to bring these,” she explained.
Abbie gave her a look Grace hadn’t seen before. It made her insides go all soft and squishy.
“Thank you, Grace,” Abbie said. “These are lovely. Lilies are my favorite.”
Grace felt clumsy and awkward as she continued to stand there and stare stupidly up at Abbie like she was a magic obelisk that had just risen from the slate pavers. “Well,” she lowered her gaze, “it was either these or a wrist corsage.”
CK chuckled.
Grace shot her a dirty look. “What?”
CK stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Why don’t you two blow this pop stand and go get a room someplace?”
Grace’s eyes widened, but Abbie just laughed. “Believe me, CK,” she said, “I’d like nothing better.” She touched Grace on the arm. “Let me get these into some water and go make nice a bit longer. I’ll see you shortly.”
“Okay,” Grace replied. Her mouth was suddenly dry.
Abbie squeezed her arm before releasing it. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She moved on.
Grace caught a trace of her scent as she passed—an oddly intoxicating blend of nutmeg and cedar. She nearly lost it when she finally got a chance to steal an unobstructed view of Abbie’s dress—and the provocative slit that extended halfway up one glorious thigh.
“This night is gonna kill me.”
“You’ll survive,” CK said. “But you might wanna drink up. Here comes Lorrie.”
Oh, great. Just what I need.
“Fuck,” Grace said.
“My sentiments exactly,” CK agreed. “If you ask me, somebody should put a canister of Tannerite up that bitch’s ass.”
Grace looked at her with disbelief. “Dude, I think you’re spending way too much time with my brother.”
Lorrie had now pushed her way through the crowd to join them.
“Hello, CK. Hello, Grace.”
Lorrie’s gaze raked CK up and down, then lingered longer on Grace. A lot longer. “Don’t you look adorable?” she said. “Like a sexy, androgynous schoolgirl, hawking ivy-league hair gel.”
“Is that a compliment?” Grace asked. She resisted an impulse to smooth her hair. It did tend to be unruly, especially when it was cut as short as she was wearing it for the summer.
“Duh,” Lorrie replied. “Did you miss the ‘sexy’ part?” Lorrie reached out to tuck a few strands of wayward hair behind Grace’s ear. “I love how the light catches these blond highlights. And the nerdy glasses are a perfect accessory for this evening.”
Accessory? Grace had advanced presbyopia and she always wore “nerdy” glasses at night—they gave her better vision than her contact lenses.
“I’m glad you approve,” she said. “I wasn’t really going for any kind of fashion statement.”
“Well if you had been, the message has been received—loud and clear.”
Are you for fucking real? Grace wondered why Lorrie didn’t just throw herself across a platter of canapés and shout, “Dig in, everyone!” The
woman was a total horn dog.
She shot an anxious look at CK, who was watching their exchange with obvious amusement.
Will you please give me a damn hand?
CK finally took the hint. “So, are you having a good time, Lorrie?” she asked.
Lorrie immediately launched into her best, most invasive behavior—insinuating herself into the sliver of space between CK and Grace. “This party is simply the best. So many fascinating people. Have you met Abbie’s parents yet?”
Grace shook her head, but CK stepped right into the batter’s box.
“I have,” she said. “Her father’s kind of a Charles Boyer type, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes,” Lorrie agreed. “That’s a perfect analogy. I absolutely adored him in Love Affair with Irene Dunne.”
“Funny,” CK said. “I was thinking more of Gaslight.”
Lorrie knitted her brows. “I don’t think I know that one.”
“You wouldn’t,” CK replied.
Grace cleared her throat. “What about Mme Abbot?”
“A flawless beauty,” Lorrie gushed.
“A total douchebag,” CK corrected.
Lorrie blinked at her. “Do you really think so?”
“Are you kidding?” CK continued. “She makes Gwyneth Paltrow look like Millie Dresselhaus.”
Lorrie’s look of confusion was so pronounced that Grace had to take pity on her.
“Lorrie? It looks like you’re on empty. Let’s get you some more wine.”
Lorrie beamed at her. “Isn’t this Burgundy just the best? Leave it to Abbie to serve such exquisite wine.”
CK opened her mouth to comment, but Grace glared at her.
“It looks like they’re rounding us up. Why don’t you go inside and find our table, CK? Lorrie and I will be right along.”
“Oh.” Lorrie laid a restraining hand on Grace’s arm. “No need. I’ve already checked it out. All three of us are at the head table.” She beamed. “With Abbie, her parents, the dean of the faculty, and the board chair.”
The head table? Grace shot a panicked look at CK.
“Now whoever could’ve predicted that?” CK chuckled.
“Oh, Abbie thinks of everything. And she just looks amazing, doesn’t she?”
Grace nodded dumbly, unsure of what to say.
“That dress? Halston. Classic. And those Christian Louboutin shoes? Worth a king’s ransom.”
“I like the red soles,” Grace agreed.
CK snorted.
“I saw those earrings she’s wearing once in New York. Cartier—I’m sure of it.” Lorrie fanned herself. “Her late husband must’ve been positively loaded.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Grace said.
“Or maybe,” CK offered, “Abbie made her money the old-fashioned way—by earning it herself.”
Lorrie didn’t make any reply.
CK took that as encouragement enough. She drained her glass. “One more for the road, ladies?”
“Don’t mind if we do.” Lorrie hooked arms with Grace and turned her around to face the bar. “I think we have just enough time before dinner.”
# # #
Never in her life had Grace been more tempted to swap her place card with someone else’s.
Not only was she seated at the head table—the hand-lettered little card bearing her name sat proudly to the immediate left of the spot reserved for President Williams.
CK sat on Abbie’s right. Lorrie was next to CK—followed by Luc and Solange Abbot, Board Chair Mitchell Ware, and Dean of the Faculty Edwin Meeker.
Grace began to feel queasy.
Why not just slap me in stocks on the quad and paste a big damn scarlet A on my chest?
“Will you just relax,” CK whispered in her ear. “This is the safest place for you to be.”
“How do you figure?” Grace pulled out her chair and sat down. It was only then she noticed the flowers on the head table—red and orange Peruvian lilies. Her lilies.
“Because,” CK continued, “if Abbie feels confident enough to seat you right here, she must believe there is nothing to be worried about. You need to trust her.”
“I guess so.” Grace stole a glance at Abbie, who was moving through the room, touching base with all the guests at the other six tables. She also saw that Abbie’s parents, Solange and Luc Abbot, were making their way toward the head table. Luc Abbot pulled out the chair for his wife, and then took pains to introduce himself to Grace and CK.
“Hello,” he said, extending a slender hand to Grace. “I am Luc Abbot, Élisabeth’s father.”
Grace took his hand and shook it warmly. “Grace Warner, Dr. Abbot. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you,” he said. “You are a teacher at St. Albans?”
“Yes. I teach English literature,” she replied. “Badly.”
His blue eyes sparkled. “I somehow doubt that. Élisabeth has spoken very highly of you.”
“Oh. Um . . .” Grace was stunned. Abbie had spoken about her to her parents? “I’m flattered. But I fear she has exaggerated my . . . skill level.”
“Your humility does you credit,” he offered before moving on to CK.
Grace was moved by Luc Abbot’s clear overture at friendship. She began to wonder if maybe CK had been right. Maybe there was nothing to worry about?
Then she caught Abbie’s mother glaring at her from the other side of the lilies. She looked anything but accepting. Solange Abbot was making no effort to talk with anyone—not even poor Mitchell Ware, who was doing his level best to converse with her in broken French.
Give it up, Mitch, she thought. This lady wouldn’t give you the time of day if you were sporting a toque with one hundred perfect pleats. She’d be likelier to tell you to go suck an egg than ask you to explain how to cook one perfectly.
Lorrie and Edwin Meeker had now taken their places at the table.
The dean leaned toward Grace. “Thanks for coming, Grace. We really wanted Abbie to get to know some faculty who represent the future of St. Allie’s. You and Dr. Greene were the unanimous choices.”
Grace had no difficulty understanding why they included CK—even though she was teaching there on a temporary basis and would probably opt to leave as soon as her grant funding expired. She was certain the college would move heaven and earth to try and keep her, though. What CK would do was anyone’s guess. Grace figured she’d have her pick of about two dozen offers—all at schools with greater prestige and whopping big endowments.
For her part, she wondered how expansive the dean’s definition of “get to know” was.
Probably better not to think too much about that—at least for tonight.
“Thanks, Eddie,” she said. “I’m honored to represent the department.”
“Bryce tells me that you’ve got some stellar contributions to Borealis rolling in.”
Bryce was talking with the dean? Horses—not zebras, she reminded herself. “We do. Don DeLillo, Dorothy Allison, two poems by Isobel Van Dyk—and another submission Bryce doesn’t know about yet. Ann Patchett.”
“Really?” Eddie looked impressed. “How’d you finagle that one?”
“She was my dissertation adviser at Vanderbilt.” Grace shrugged. “I essentially blackmailed her.”
He smiled. “I doubt it.”
“Don’t be so sure. I threatened to announce on Twitter that she is the ghostwriter of my unpublished novel. She caved immediately and overnighted a short story to us.” Grace smiled at the dean. “Worked like a charm.”
“I’m sure Bryce will be thrilled with this news.”
Yeah. About as thrilled as he’d be to have his hemorrhoids excised.
“Thanks,” she said. “I think so, too.”
Eddie looked up as someone approached the table. It was Abbie.
“Forgive me for keeping you waiting,” she addressed them all. “And thanks for saving my seat.” She briefly rested a hand on Grace’s shoulder.
Jeez, lady. Like to live dangerously?
>
“I can’t take credit for that, Dr. Williams,” Grace corrected her. “Whenever anyone got too close for comfort, Dr. Greene would belch.”
“It’s true,” CK chimed in. “Belching on command is my real claim to fame.”
Grace nodded. “Not a lot of people know that about our resident MacArthur genius.”
Abbie took her seat. “I can see I got lucky with this seating arrangement.” She glanced at Grace. “Very lucky.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” CK bumped shoulders with Lorrie. “Our esteemed artist in residence here has offered to regale us with bawdy limericks from the old country.”
Lorrie looked perplexed. “What old country?” she asked CK.
“I dunno. Pick one.”
“How about Mongolia?” Eddie offered.
Grace looked at him. “Mongolia had bawdy verse?”
He shrugged. “It could happen.”
CK raised her glass. “I say we consider only bastions of dead languages.”
“You mean like St. Allie’s?” Grace asked.
Abbie chuckled.
“I have no idea what you’re all talking about,” Lorrie lamented.
Across the table, Luc Abbot chanted, “There was a young lady of Niger . . .”
“Who smiled as she rode on a tiger,” CK continued.
Eddie took up the charge. “They returned from the ride . . .”
“With the lady inside,” Grace continued.
“And a smile on the face of the tiger?” Abbie asked.
Luc began the applause. “Bravo. Merveilleux.”
“And to think I almost didn’t come.” CK clinked glasses with Abbie.
“I still don’t get it,” Lorrie sulked.
CK patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dear. Carbs are en route.”
White-coated servers arrived and began depositing perfectly bronzed, mini-brioche pastries on their plates.
“Poor little thing,” CK mused, holding her roll between her thumb and index finger. “Cut off in its infancy.” She looked at Abbie. “I think its mother was a bâtard, don’t you?”
“Un émigrés, for sure.” Abbie looked amused. “Based on those aspiring swirls, I’d say its father was an itinerant baguette.”