But Xavier is nowhere to be found.
Vivian hopes he has gone to deposit the note and that she’ll get some answers soon. By “mailbox downstairs,” he must mean that antique mailbox ensconced in the dark foyer entrance, by the front door. She recalls seeing a few notes tucked inside its open mailbox slots. It’s likely a messaging system of sorts that Knox members use to communicate with one another and reminds her of a wooden cabinet an elegant European hotel might use in itsreception area to store old-fashioned room keys with attached tassels.
Could Xavier be a Knox member?
“Are you feeling okay?” Peter asks, pulling her out of her reverie. “You’re quiet tonight.”
“I’m fine. Sorry, I have a headache,” she fibs.
“Drink some more water,” he suggests, and he motions to someone behind Vivian’s shoulder.
Rose approaches to fill their water glasses. She takes her time; she’s deliberate. Vivian doesn’t understand what her role is, exactly. She seems to always be underfoot. The number of staff at the Knox is, as far as Vivian can tell, fairly small. A lot of them multitask. It feels like this is a deliberate choice; they could afford to hire however many people they wanted to. But instead, there’s a tight inner-circle vibe she’s sensing. And clearly Rose, with her bright smile at Peter and then grim-faced look at Vivian, doesn’t particularly love outsiders.
Too bad for Rose, Vivian isn’t going anywhere. Besides, she is not as much of an outsider as Rose thinks.
Vivian fiddles with the menu, which doesn’t show any prices. It’s a gout-inducing meal if she ever saw one: Duxbury oysters, shrimp scampi, pan-seared foie gras. And that’s just the apps. Meal options include duck and venison, trout and scallops. Thank goodness they have a salmon Caesar salad option. It’s no wonder Graham had that heart attack.
“Better?” Peter asks, once they’ve ordered from a waiter who introduces himself as Eduardo, and Vivian has taken a few sips of her water.
She nods, and then promptly exchanges her water glass for her wineglass. They are drinking a 2018 Gaja Barbaresco, a bottle not listed on the wine menu. It’s a favorite of Vivian’s;something she mentioned to Peter at their dinner date. Did he have it stocked just for her?
“So what do you think?” Peter asks.
“Of the wine?”
Peter gestures around them. “The wine, the room, the place.”
“The place, meaning the Knox?”
“Yes.”
She glances around; the crowd is more sophisticated and European than Boston usually runs. But among the unfamiliar faces she spots a few Boston people in the know: Alina, the interior designer behind Wolf in Sheep Design, dining with her husband, Jay, of the legendary sneaker store Bodega. The head of the Brookline Hospital, who’s been to her mother’s house for fundraisers. Zoey, owner of the famed Gulmi Group PR company. A Massachusetts senator. Sal, the artistic director of Salon Mario Russo. Kate, from @BucketListBoston. Vivian feels almost comforted by this, the fact that there are people here who are real people, established people. But in the next breath it gives her pause. The Knox is a very connected place. Are these people Knox members, or guests? Does it matter?
Xavier has not yet reappeared.
“I think it’s interesting. And I think it’s interesting that you would ask me that, here.”
He grins. “Why?”
She’s starting to wonder if he’s the type that gets off on pushing the envelope. A mile-high-clubber sort. The way he’s always telling her things he shouldn’t, and now, asking her here out in the open about the Knox.
“Do you know these people?” she asks.
“Some.”
“Are they all members? Or are some guests?”
“It’s a mix tonight,” Peter says, as his eyes roam around the room.
“What about that guy who was with Oliver? What was his name, again?”
“Xavier?”
“Right. Is he a member?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
She shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. “He reminds me of someone…but I can’t put my finger on who.”
