I lift one hand, palm down, and wobble it side to side in the universal so-so gesture. “Kind of.” And then, because I like riling my friend up, I add. “I’ve been sleeping in her bed for the past two nights.”
“Son of a bitch!” Aksel mutters. “Stop saying shit like that. It’s not cool.”
“I love her,” I tell him. “Not going to let her go,Aksel. I’m going to marry her, and we’re going to have babies.”
He looks me up and down. Drinks some coffee. Then, as if he’s lost a fight with himself, he says, “Well, she could do worse.”
Coming from Aksel, that may as well be a standing ovation.
Jonathan comes running. ”The tuxes have arrived! The tuxes have arrived!”
“Take a load off,” I wave a hand at the benches in the gazebo.
“Mummy, can we get a knife? Then can we slice the snowman’s head open?” Anika asks Latika, who growls about the inappropriateness of their request, and then urges Akselloudlyto find her a drink.
“Christ!” Aksel grimaces.
Jonathan winces. “I can’t sit. Margot has?—”
“Sit,” I insist, nodding at Aksel and Jonathan. “If you let her, she’ll run you ragged. Take a load off, have a coffee. Maybe eat a croissant. In a couple of hours, have a beer and?—”
“Ransom!” Margot’s voice slices through the morning like a chef’s knife.
I freeze.
Aksel lowers his paper like a man under siege.
Jonathan looks petrified.
I glance at them and press a finger to my lips. “Shhh,” I whisper. “I’m with Chef Pascal in Chamonix. Okay? If she asks, you haven’t seen me.”
I rise slowly, stealth-mode engaged, and begin my escape—out of the gazebo, past the table, toward sweet backyard freedom?—
Margot’s voice cracks again, right behind me. “Chef Pascal is in the kitchen waiting for you, Ransom.” She’s standing at the door, arms crossed, her glare so potent it could light the fireworks.
“Great escape,” Aksel declares with liberal amounts of sarcasm.
“He’s one smooth criminal,” Jonathan mocks.
I give them both a one-finger salute, and head to the kitchen.
CHAPTER 29
Ember
The house looks like it’s been dusted in candlelight and old-world magic.
Every sconce glows, and every chandelier is dimmed to gold.
Pine boughs and twinkling fairy lights wrap the banisters and fireplace mantels.
The grand salon has been transformed.
A quartet plays softly in the corner: strings and piano, French jazz giving way to a more elegant classical set.
The floor has been cleared for dancing, and small round tables with white linen and vintage votives dot the perimeter.
It’s not stuffy—nothing Mama does ever is. It’s cozy and elegant, like a page fromArchitectural Digest’s NYE edition.
