Peter rises, and Vivian follows suit. “Sorry about Oliver,” Peter whispers in her ear. “He’s a piece of work sometimes.”
The four make their way past the scroll and to the hall amid the crowd. Peter stops periodically to say hello to people, withVivian politely smiling by his side. She’s distracted, though, searching for Xavier. She sees him reappear and then disappear, like a magic trick.
The crowd slowly ascends the grand stairs, en route to Canton’s Restaurant, and Vivian’s momentarily distracted by the incredible art gallery wall. There’s a Laura Schiff Bean painting of a dress; she owns one of these herself. And then a Van Gogh, alongside a Chinese reverse-glass painting and a Damien Hirst print. Vivian has no doubt these are authentic. At the very top she spots a white minimalist abstract painting with deceptive dimension: textured rolls, peaks and valleys.
Her gaze is transfixed on the art; she is utterly engrossed, trying to absorb it all, and she missteps, stumbles. Peter grabs her.
“Be careful. You don’t want to be falling down these stairs.”
She looks behind her, taking in the unforgiving, steep staircase. “I’m fine,” she replies, a little embarrassed. Christ, she needs to be more careful.
They step onto the landing and continue down a hallway lined with misshapen modern stone bubbles. She believes it’s the same artist who did the white textured minimalist painting. The artist’s name is on the tip of her tongue. Vivian read recently about the auction of her work at Sotheby’s; there was some piece that went for 6.2 million dollars. Maybe this is the one.
And all this, Vivian supposes, is what sets the Knox apart from other private clubs. The furniture and decor in a span of a few feet is worth more than what a Wall Street banker might make in a good year. Depending on the area in the Knox, perhaps an entire banking firm’s annual profits.
Sheneedsto establish her family link. There’s clearly enough wealth to go around. And around. And around.
She recalls what Rachel had said to her:You could just marry Peter.
It would be neat and tidy, wouldn’t it, to marry Peter? But the problem is, she doesn’t think she knows the real him—not yet, at least.
And he doesn’t know the real her.
The unease Vivian felt before entering the Knox premises has returned.
Peter moves ahead to converse with someone down the hall, and again she spots Xavier. He’s leaning alone against an unadorned patch of wall, a miserable look on his face.
She sidles up, and when she’s sure no one is looking, she asks, “So, you want to tell me what’s going on?”
Xavier casts a furtive look around before meeting her gaze. She’s struck by how small his pupils look, like tiny stars nearly lost in the night. He mutters, at the bottom of his breath, “Not now. I’ll…I’ll leave you a note in the mailbox downstairs. Number thirty-four.”
Taylor
There’s a different energy that day, with the Knox members having returned from their retreat. An electricity.
“The initiation,” the diners utter several times, as Taylor refills their water glasses. For once, Rose has allowed her to stick around for the Canton lunch crowd, even though she can’t fully wait tables yet. That’s perfectly fine with her; it’s not like Taylor needs to earn tips, after all.
Instead, she replaces silverware that gets dropped, buses plates and drinks.
The initiation. It must be upcoming—and the reason for the charge in the air.
One of the chefs asks Taylor to show him the plates returned with uneaten portions, but the diners—all men today—are mostly licking their plates clean.Gathering their energy for the initiation?
She keeps a lookout for Peter; to her disappointment, he doesn’t show. But Oliver does, arriving in a silk Cuban-style shirt and khakis. He’s jittery, spilling his wine and then his waterglass. Taylor wonders if the girl wearing the sheet has crawled back into his bed or been ushered out.
Luckily for Taylor, Oliver doesn’t give any of the help a second glance.
Jerry seems to be eyeing him, though, a big scowl contorting his face.
For a moment, while no one is looking, Taylor pauses in the dining room with her eyes closed. Given the expensive quality of the Italian suits most of the men wear and the honest-to-goodness Rolexes shimmering on their wrists, there’s likely enough Black Amexes here to buy a small country. What if she were here as a diner, not an employee? Then Jerry jostles her—intentionally?—and she slips back into the kitchen.
One might argue that it’s really here, in the kitchen, where she belongs. Here, with the heat of the stove and the chatter of the cooks, most of whom barely give her a glance. Here, where she could so easily fade into the familiar: the repetitive chop of knives, the sizzles of meats on the grill. The intense aroma of garlic, onion, butter. Sweat.
All that’s missing is the fried seafood, and, of course, her dad himself.
She wonders where he is right now: in his own restaurant, frying up a catfish or hush puppy? Drinking a Diet Coke like water? She knows Aunt Gigi told him about her waitressing gig because he called and didn’t leave a voicemail like healwaysdoes. So, it’s her move now. But she’d rather wait until he receives the check in the mail. Then, she’s hoping, he won’t be disappointed. Or won’t beasdisappointed.
Jerry enters the kitchen, dropping a dirty plate in the metal industrial sink with a loud clank. She catches his eye and nods. He makes his way over to her.
