Instead he waved me inside and I checked my coat in the lobby. I passed through a couple of smaller rooms before reaching the main ballroom, and there were people standing around talking and I felt very . . . conspicuous. In the past I’d stood out only when I’d chosen to, and this was making me uncomfortable. It felt like everyone was staring at me.
When my mom was convicted, the media had posted family pictures that had both me and Alice in them. Honestly, I was always a bit worried that somebody obsessed with her story or doing a podcast about her crimes would identify me.
People were standing around talking while waiters circulated with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. I passed on both, wanting to stay alert enough to study when I got home and to have enough of an appetite that I could eat dinner quickly and then leave.
This segment of the evening was probably part of that whole networking thing Sheila had mentioned, but I did not need new friends. Instead I walked around each table, looking for the Crawfords’ names. It took me a bit to find them, at one of the center tables not far away from the stage where the DJ was playing classical music. I sat down just as the DJ announced that dinner was about to begin.
That I was now even closer to making my escape pleased me. An elderly woman sat down on my right and said, “You don’t look like a John.”
“No,” I said with a small smile. “I’m filling in for the Crawfords tonight.”
“What a coincidence! I’m filling in for my daughter.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
Now, this was where the conversation probably should have ended. She was sitting with a man who was presumably her husband, so she had someone else to talk to, and I wasn’t really encouraging her.
She leaned over and said, “My name is Margery Brown. This is my husband, Sal.”
“I’m Diana. Nice to meet you both.” Her husband didn’t look up from his phone.
That was my first clue that things were about to take a turn for the annoying. I quickly studied Margery’s face, the intent in her eyes. In my previous line of “work,” it had been easy to read cues from people, to see who they were and what they wanted. I realized that this woman was the talkative type and I was going to be trapped by her monologue for the next forty-five minutes.
I hated it when I was right.
Dinner was some kind of chicken dish, and I could barely even taste it. Margery went on and on about traveling out to see her daughter and grandchildren and how that son-in-law of hers was no good. At one point I saw her husband secretly smile, and I assumed it was because I was the one dealing with this conversation instead of him.
I nodded, made appropriate sounds, and tried to eat quickly. But Margery was the type who seemed to talk without taking a single breath, so there was no chance to excuse myself. Not only that, but she was somehow managing to eat, too. That took real skill. I would have admired her if I hadn’t been so out of my mind with boredom.
“You should meet my youngest son. He’s . . . How old are you?” Margery asked.
What? She wanted to know something about me? “Twenty-three.”
“Oh.” Her face fell and she said, “My son is only twenty and at Brown. Where did you go to college?”
For one whole second I entertained myself with the thought of being totally truthful with her about my life story. But then I reminded myself that I didn’t know what kind of connection she might have to the Crawfords and I couldn’t indulge my sometimes self-destructive nature.
Wait, she was filling in for her daughter. There probably wasn’t any connection.
Okay, maybe I could indulge it a tiny bit. “I didn’t go to school.”
“Your poor parents must have been so disappointed.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Not really.”
Margery made a sputtering noise at this, but we were, thankfully, interrupted.
“May I have your attention, please?” A woman at the microphone who looked very much like a Bonnie began to speak and thank their donors and sponsors and everyone attending this evening. I’d never, in my entire life, been so grateful for the mind-numbing speeches portion of the evening. At least here I could let my mind wander, think about what I was going to do with Milo’s lessons. I didn’t come up with any good solutions other than to google everything, but this was more entertaining than anything I’d gone through so far that evening.
The DJ started up some soft rock and I could finally, FINALLY, leave. I said goodbye to Margery and a clearly disappointed Sal, and headed for what I assumed was the exit. There were multiple sets of doors throughout the room and I picked the wrong ones. Instead of going out the way I’d come in, I had gone into some kind of enclosed terrace. There were several sofas and tables, a fire burned in the fireplace against one wall, and the snow fell silently just beyond the large windows.
I walked closer to the windows to see if I could make out any of the view, and that’s when I tripped and fell, flying out of my right shoe. I hit the ground so hard it was like my soul temporarily left my body.
“That looked like it hurt. Are you all right?” The voice was very masculine, very British. Posh sounding.
Up to that point, the only thing I’d had going for me was that no one here had seen me humiliate myself. Of course that couldn’t be the case.
I turned to see a ridiculously handsome twentysomething man staring down at me with concern. Like the kind where he was so good-looking that he didn’t seem real. My eyes were drooling. Or maybe crying over his hotness.
If this was Margery’s son I was going to punch somebody.
Although it might be worth having her as a mother-in-law if I got this guy as my husband.
I found myself staring at him, taking in his smile, his strong jawline, tousled brownish-blondish hair, his light eyes. I loved the way the light caressed the planes of his face, the curve of his mouth. I wanted to paint him. Everything was so working for me. Realizing that I hadn’t replied I said, “It wasn’t great. But I’m okay.”
“Here.” He reached out his hand. “Let me help you up.”
I felt this tingling awareness, like this was some fated meeting. That everything in my life had been leading to this moment. Which was so stupid, but it was like he’d walked out of my dreams and into my ballroom.
“Thanks.” I put my hand in his and the electric feeling of his hand wrapped around me made my knees go weak. It was a good thing I was still sitting on the floor. He pulled gently but firmly and it took a second for me to make my legs work. I did get up, though, and my whole body swayed toward him. He put his hands on my shoulders, as if to steady me, but that seriously only made things worse. Heat burst under his touch and made me shivery everywhere.
He was tall! So tall. Taller than me. And he was wearing an expensive Tom Ford suit that fit him very, very well. Wow. So attractive.
I stepped back slightly on my bare foot, feeling a little like a cartoon pirate with a too-short peg leg, given that I had one shoe off and the other still on. He released his hands and I felt a chill pass through me. My stomach felt hollowed out, and I didn’t know if that was caused by him or the fall.
“I’m good,” I said. Whether that was for his benefit or for mine, I wasn’t sure. I went to get my other shoe, but he got it first and picked it up.