He laughs. “Touché.”
Vivian brings the cup to her face, reveling in the warmth. She’s not cold, but the steam feels good. She feels visceral, aware of her senses like she hasn’t been in a long time. The soft, luxurious velvet of the chair beneath her back. The way the jazz notes linger in the air, like drawn-out exhalations. The slight stubble of a beard on Peter’s face that she suddenly has an inane desire to reach forward and touch. It feels good to be lost in the moment, to not feel the weight of her problems.
Suddenly, she’s aware that time has slipped. How long have they been chatting? She glances at the grandfather clock tuckedagainst one of the back walls, but oddly enough it seems to say the same time as when she looked earlier, the minute hand just past three o’clock.
Peter notices her gaze. “It’s stopped on 3:03, the time that our founder died.”
“Mr.Knox, I presume?”
“William Knox.”
“WilliamKnox. I’d just assumed…”
“Henry Knox?” he fills in. “It’s a common misassumption. No, the Knox was not established by the historical figure Henry Knox, but rather an alleged distant cousin of his, William.”
She files that piece of information away. She’ll need to remember it later, to relay to Rachel. Her friend doesn’t know it yet, but she’s soon going to be putting her talents to use; Rachel’s a genealogist at the Vilna Shul, an old synagogue turned Boston cultural arts center.
“Are you…Are you supposed to be telling me all this?” Vivian asks haltingly.
He laughs. “Probably not.”
“Do you often invite guests inside?”
Peter holds her gaze. “Never.”
Voices drift from the far end of the room. They have company. Michael saunters in, flanked by Jerry, the waiter.
Michael stops short when he sees Vivian. “Vivian, I mean Ms.Lawrence. Hello. Peter.” He nods briskly at Peter. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” he says stiffly.
“We don’t. We only just met,” Peter says, while Vivian adds, “Please, it’s Vivian.”
“Now I understand why the Knox has been spending so much money at a certain antiques store,” says Peter.
Michael reddens. “Storied Antiques is one of the finest of its kind.”
Peter laughs. “Relax, Michael. I’m just joking. You know I’ve always approved of the items you procure.” He turns to Vivian. “Michael and I go way back. We were flatmates, years ago in London.”
He says this like Vivian already knows Michael lived in London, but Vivian knows very little about Michael. Practically nothing, in fact. She notices he doesn’t wear a wedding band, just a signet ring. “Is that where you two met, in London?” she asks.
Peter answers for them. “No, we first met here, at the Knox. Michael’s father was close with my mentor, Gilbert Joseph. You see, unlike me, Michael hails from a long lineage of Knox members. I’m just the scrappy SOB they somehow let in.” He grins rather endearingly, and Vivian can’t help but smile back.
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it that—” Michael starts to say, but Peter interrupts.
“Vivian, has Michael already invited you to our annual masquerade ball?”
Vivian looks at Michael, who is wearing an unreadable expression. “No.”
Peter runs his hand through his hair. “Well, please do us the honor. It’s next Friday. Eight p.m. It’s one of our only events of the year where we are officially allowed to invite nonmember guests. Come in your finest Venetian attire.”
Next Friday she has dinner plans with Rachel, but she’s pretty sure that she will be forgiven for needing to reschedule. Likely encouraged by her friend to reschedule, in fact. “I’d love to.”
“Wonderful,” Peter says, clapping his hands together as they rise.
Jerry rushes in to clear the tea tray as if being summoned, but Peter subtly shakes his head, and Jerry backs off.
“Wonderful, Michael, isn’t it?” Peter says.
Taylor
