Cillian speaks, “Ah yes, and he has an incredible cellar in Star’s family home in Hudson Valley. Her father was kind enough to invite us over for Thanksgiving.”
Mary’s hand freezes around her wine glass, her lips tightening before she recovers.
“How... interesting,” she says without looking at me or Cillian. “Arthur, did I mention Congressman Wilson is joining us for the New Year’s gala? He specifically asked if Bea would be attending. He was quite taken with her at the hospital benefit last spring.”
The deflection is a transparent attempt to redirect the conversation back. Arthur’s eyebrows lift slightly, the only indication he’s noticed the manipulation.
“I believe you mentioned it several times, Mary,” he says mildly, then turns to me. “You’re from the Hudson Valley originally, Star?”
“Yes,” I answer. “My family has a small vineyard. Nothing like this scale, of course.” I gesture to indicate the grandeur around us. “Just three acres of Cabernet Franc and Riesling grapes, but my father loves it.”
“Cabernet Franc can be challenging in that climate,” Arthur observes, genuinely interested. “I’d be curious to taste his results sometime.”
Before I can respond, Mary interjects. “The second course will be getting cold,” she announces, signaling the servers who have been hovering at the periphery. They swoop in, removing appetizer plates with synchronized efficiency.
I catch Cillian’s eye as the plates are cleared. He offers a small smile. I straighten my posture, refusing to slouch despite my isolation.
The main course of roasted meat and delicate vegetables arrives. The plate before me is a work of art, though the food holds little appeal under the circumstances. I lift my fork anyway, determined to maintain composure. The silver feels heavy in my hand.
“I had Cook prepare Cillian’s favorite,” Mary says, drawing his attention back. “Remember when you requested this for your graduation dinner?”
“It looks wonderful,” Cillian responds neutrally, still not eating.
Bea shifts uncomfortably, her fork moving food around her plate.
“The sauce is exactly how you like it, Cill,” Mary continues. “Remember how you and Bea tried to recreate it that summer in the Hamptons?”
“No.”
I stifle a laugh at his bluntness.
Arthur changes the subject. “The weather report suggests the snow might clear by tomorrow afternoon. Let’s show Star the property.”
The invitation clearly irritates Mary, whose smile tightens to something barely polite.
“I’m sure Star wouldn’t be interested in trudging through snow to see dormant gardens,” she counters without looking at me. “Bea, you mentioned wanting to see the new greenhouse. Perhaps you and Cillian could tour it.”
“I’d love to see the property,” I interrupt, my voice calm but carrying. “I’m working on a winter landscapes series. The snow against stone would be fascinating to capture.”
Mary’s lips press into a thin line at my interruption. For a brief moment, her mask slips, revealing the fear beneath her hostility.
I meet her gaze across the table, neither challenging nor submitting. Just seeing her perhaps for the first time. And in that moment, something shifts in the atmosphere, subtle but unmistakable.
Chapter 6
Mary lifts her wine glass with the precision of a woman who’s spent decades perfecting the gesture. Light fractures through crystal, casting tiny rainbows across the tablecloth. It’s delicate, beautiful, and as cold as her smile. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t even glance toward my end of the table. Her eyes lock on Cillian as if he’s the only person worth acknowledging. The rest of us—Arthur, Bea, the silent servers hovering in shadows—we’re just supporting characters in the Mary and Cillian show. And I’m hardly even that. I’m the unwelcome plot twist she’s determined to edit out.
“To tradition,” Mary announces, her voice carrying effortlessly down the fifteen feet of mahogany separating us. The emerald silk of her sleeve catches the light as she raises her glass higher, turning her wrist just so. “And to realizing that new things aren’t always better.”
The barb flies across the table and lands exactly where she intended—right in my chest. Her eyes never leave Cillian’s face, but the message is unmistakable. New things. Me. The interloper in red.
Still, I don’t flinch. I don’t react. I simply lift my own glass with steady fingers. The crystal catches light differently at my end of the table. Warmer.
Servers materialize from the shadows, placing the next course before each of us.
“The quail is from our own estate,” Mary announces. “Arthur has been cultivating the woodland specifically to encourage nesting. Haven’t you, dear?”
Arthur nods without enthusiasm. “Three years now.”
