“Phones need to stay in airplane mode too. There is to be no recording on the patio, or anywhere during the party. No photographs.”
Nicholas nods. And then the guard steps out of the way, Nicholas motioning for me to go first as we walk through the sliding doors, entering the bar area.
“That wasn’t great,” I say. I keep my voice low.
“It was expected.”
“It didn’t feel expected,” I say.
“Well, you handled it, so thank you for that.”
“What would you do if they had taken you off the list?”
“I was hoping not to find out. But, based on that little display, I’m sure you would have thought of something…”
I start to give him a smile, offer a little laugh, but he is focused as we walk into the restaurant’s bar.
It’s a small and regal room with thick carpet, brick walls, and stained glass windows—medieval flags wrapped around the ceiling. Tonight it’s being used as a greeting area. A waiter welcomes us with a tray of champagne flutes and tall glasses of sparkling water.
Nicholas takes two flutes of the champagne, handing me one.
I take a sip and pull my nerves together as we head outside to the staircase leading down to the veranda.
Even in this precipitous moment, it’s impossible not to notice the breathtaking views.
This stunner of a garden restaurant perched high above the cliffs of Èze, the Mediterranean Sea spread out far below, the peninsula jutting out, sailboats twinkling in the distance.
And the veranda itself, where the family party is in full swing: kids running around, adults racing after them, music playing and drinks being poured, cocktail tables lit up with tea candles and rustic lanterns.
The feeling in this party surprises me: the lightness, the joy. And what’s striking is that it could be any family. Rather, any family who could afford to be standing on top of the Mediterranean Sea celebrating an eightieth birthday.
For a moment, we could be any two other guests, any close friends of the family—standing at the top of the small flight of stairs, entering the party. But then, people start to look up and notice us.
Or, I should say, they notice Nicholas. They are focused on Nicholas, a murmur making its way through some of the family.
But Nicholas doesn’t seem to notice them. He isn’t interested in any of the chaos around us—the kids racing around, the adults starting to stare at him—as he heads down the flight of steps and onto the veranda.
And whatever uneasiness he was showing outside—whatever vulnerability I was concerned about—it’s disappeared.
Nicholas’s eyes are steely cold—steely cold and focused and ready. And I recognize it in that readiness: This is what happens when you’ve saved all your energy to do the thing that matters the most.
He is entirely focused on the other end of the veranda, on one person. The only person who matters.
Frank stands in the far corner, in a perfectly tailored linen jacket and jeans—his shoulders wide and broad. He doesn’t look eighty. He looks a decade younger than that—everything about him still confident and strong and together.
Frank is in an intimate conversation with a younger man, whose back is to us. A man who is taller than Frank: tall and lanky. Frank’s hand reaching up to touch his shoulder—Frank staring at him lovingly.
When the younger man turns, I see that it’s Teddy. Teddy, who is also in a sports jacket and jeans, looking like a mirror image of his father (handsome, chiseled, secure). His father to whom he is leaning in close.
This is when I see who is standing behind them. Four security guards in black suits—matching the guard who just searched my bag by the front entrance. Who almost stopped all of this.
They are standing discreetly behind Frank, but near to him all the same. Near enough to intervene.
Near enough to protect him.
If this worries Nicholas, he isn’t showing it. He isn’t focused on the security guards or Frank’s kids. He is, still, entirely focused on Frank.
And maybe Frank feels Nicholas’s focus, because he looks up. He looks up and locks eyes with Nicholas.
