PART 3
I didn’t understand exactly what had passed between them.
But I understood enough.
She had seen.
Or someone had told her.
And she wasn’t blaming me.
I nearly cried over that, which felt absurd.
So I did what I always did when emotions became inconvenient.
I found work.
“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
“Twenty,” Marianne said.
“Seventeen.”
“Eighteen.”
“Deal.”
I hurried toward the elevator.
Julian followed.
I stopped.
“Are you coming?”
“My suite is upstairs.”
Of course it was.
“Right.”
The elevator arrived.
We stepped inside.
The doors closed.
And suddenly I was trapped in a mirrored box with the most intimidating man in Manhattan while wearing his tuxedo jacket over a champagne-soaked dress.
I stared at the glowing floor numbers.
He stared at the doors.
Finally I said, “We’re going to have to fix this.”
“The elevator?”
“The engagement.”
“Ah.”
“You can’t just tell an entire ballroom you’re engaged to someone.”
“I already have.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
“What happens when people ask questions?”
“They will.”
“When newspapers hear about it?”
“They may.”
“When my mother hears about it?”
That got his attention.
“Is your mother frightening?”
“Only when she loves someone.”
He considered that.
“I’ve faced worse.”
“You haven’t met my mother.”
The elevator opened on the fourth floor.
I stepped out, then turned.
“You can have your jacket back after I change.”
“Keep it until the end of the evening.”
“You’re going back downstairs without a jacket?”
“I own others.”
“Of course you do.”
The doors began closing.
His hand stopped them.
“Ava.”
It was the first time he’d used my first name.
I looked up.
His expression had changed.
The humor was gone.
“Don’t apologize for what happened downstairs.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
I hated that he was right.
“Habit.”
“Break it.”
Then he let the doors close.
I stood alone in the hall for several seconds.
And wondered why those two words stayed with me.
Break it.
I returned to the ballroom eighteen minutes later wearing a simple navy gown from Bellmere’s emergency wardrobe.
Julian’s jacket was folded over my arm.
Damian and Victoria were gone.
That should have made me relax.
It didn’t.
People glanced at me differently now.
Some curious.
Some embarrassed.
A few suddenly friendly.
That last group irritated me most.
A man who had ignored me while I adjusted his place card twenty minutes earlier now smiled broadly.
“Ms. Bennett, wonderful event.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Vale is quite a remarkable man.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Perhaps you could introduce us sometime?”
There it was.
I smiled professionally and escaped toward the auction tables.
For the next hour, work saved me.
I checked receipts.
Found a missing donor envelope.
Replaced a table number.
Located a vegetarian meal for a guest whose dietary note had disappeared from the system.
Normal problems.
Solvable problems.
Around ten thirty, the event began winding down.
I was carrying a box of bid sheets toward the office when Marianne appeared.
“Ava.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did I miss something?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Dinner.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You’ve been here since six.”
“How do you know that?”
“I sign the time sheets.”
Fair.
She nodded toward a small private lounge.
“There is food inside.”
“I need to finish these.”
“Leah can.”
“Marianne—”
“Ava, if you faint at one of my events, the paperwork will be unbearable.”
That was how Marianne Bellmere showed affection.
I went inside.
Julian was sitting at a small table.
I stopped.
“No.”
He looked up from his phone.
“No?”
“This feels like an ambush.”
Marianne closed the door behind me.
“It is.”
I turned.
She had already vanished.
Traitor.
Julian gestured toward the seat opposite him.
There were two plates.
Pasta.
Salad.
Bread.
My stomach responded before my pride could.
He heard it.
I knew because his expression almost changed.
“Not a word,” I warned.
“I said nothing.”
“You thought something.”
“Frequently.”
I sat.
For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.
I ate faster than etiquette permitted.
Julian pretended not to notice.
Finally I put down my fork.
“Why are you still here?”
“My company sponsored the gala.”
“The gala ended.”
“Technically, the dessert service ended.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“I’m considering how much of the answer you need tonight.”
Something in his tone made me sit straighter.
“That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
“It isn’t.”
“People who say that usually follow it with ominous things.”
He folded his hands on the table.
“I owe you an explanation.”
“Yes.”
“And possibly an apology.”
“Definitely.”
“That too.”
He took a breath.
“I knew who you were before tonight.”
The room seemed suddenly smaller.
I stared at him.
“What?”
“I recognized your name.”
“How?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
I thought of every possibility.
Work.
My old coffee shop.
Damian.
None made sense.
Julian reached into the inside pocket of his replacement jacket and removed a small envelope.
He placed it on the table.
My name was written across the front.
Ava Bennett.
The handwriting stopped my breath.
Not because I recognized it immediately.
Because I almost did.
There are memories the mind stores in strange places.
The shape of a letter.
The slope of a line.
The way someone’s hand pressed harder at the end of a word.
I touched the envelope.
“Where did you get this?”
“My mother.”
I looked up.
He continued quietly.
“She died last year.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
He glanced at the envelope.
“Her name was Eleanor Vale.”
I knew the name.
Not from newspapers.
From somewhere else.
Then the memory arrived.
A quiet woman who used to sit by the window at Brewster’s Coffee three mornings a week.
Silver hair.
Camel-colored coat.
Tea instead of coffee.
Always one blueberry scone.
She tipped too much.
Asked my name on the second week.
Remembered it forever.
“Mrs. Vale?”
Julian nodded.
I covered my mouth.
“Oh my God.”
Eleanor.
She had never told me who her family was.
To me, she had simply been Eleanor.
The woman who came in every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.
The woman who asked whether I was sleeping enough.
The woman who once stayed until my shift ended because it was snowing and she didn’t want me waiting alone at the bus stop.
Then she stopped coming.
The manager said an illness in the family had taken her out of the city.
I had written her a Christmas card and left it behind the register for months.
“You’re Eleanor’s son?”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
Suddenly I could see it.
Not strongly.
But around the eyes.
Something patient when he wasn’t trying to be intimidating.
“She talked about you.”
His mouth tightened slightly.
“I hope selectively.”
“She said you worked too much.”
“That sounds like her.”
“And that you forgot birthdays.”
May you like
“Also true.”
“She said you once sent someone to buy her flowers because you were too busy to visit, and she returned the flowers to your office.”
