But this…this wassomeone’s house.
And it was deliriously, audaciously immense.
Vaulted ceilings arched high above walls that rose with Greco-Roman arrogance, carved in pristine cream and crowned with columned alcoves. Each niche was lit with twin sconces, casting soft light across silk drapes and brocade. The windows were enormous, at once bringing the night in and keeping it at bay.
The marble floor in the center was inlaid with a compass rose, a circular starburst that gleamed beneath the chandelier, as if daring anyone to take the spotlight and live up to it.
Tables spiraled outward in perfect formation: thirteen in all, flanked by gold Chiavari chairs. They’d gone with candelabra for centerpieces, not flowers. Tall, gilded, tipped with narrow taper candles, each flame reflected in polished silverware and bone china.
The band was framed beneath a white-draped arch. A woman’s voice, sultry, like melted chocolate, pulled modern lyrics into something slow and molten.
Gage pulled her chair out and tucked her in before taking his place beside her. Nate sat on her left, already murmuring something to Isabel that made her smirk. Across the table, Georgina and Hunter, Naomi and Charles. Mason’s arm rested behind Isabel’s chair.
On the table to their right, she spotted Rafael and Laurent. On the table to the left—Catherine Vale. She didn’t bother looking at her.
The entrées arrived first. Every time a server set something down, it was met with a soft thank-you, as natural as breathing. Bea’s dish was a medley of roasted heirloom carrots, poached figs, whipped chèvre, and a spiced red-wine glaze that tasted like someone had bottled the end of summer. Around the table, there were oysters with lemon verbena ice, grilled quail with smoked grapes, tarts that looked too pretty to touch. Everything smelled like earth and oak and things that had never seen a supermarket.
“Well,” Naomi said, cutting into her quail, “we’ve officially entered our ‘grapes and goat cheese’ era.”
Georgina laughed. “It’s not goat cheese. It’schèvre. Which means it costs double and comes with emotional damage.”
“Did your starter come with narration?” Charles quipped.
“It did.” Isabel lifted her glass. “They were hand-fed alpine grass and sung to while milking.”
The mains followed. Seared duck with balsamic plums. Saffron risotto crowned by a lobster tail curled like sculpture. Wood-fired eggplant with pine nuts and pomegranate molasses—Naomi claimed first dibs on that one instantly, shielding it like treasure.
Bea leaned toward Nate, voice low. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“Go on.”
“How come you don’t date?”
He stopped chewing his duck. Just for a moment. Swallowed. Then said, “Doesn’t make sense to start something I won’t finish.”
“Why couldn’t you finish it?”
“Timing. Geography. Obligations.” He said each with punctuation.
“Specific.” Bea tilted her head. “And yet also…vague.”
“Intentionally so.” He didn’t elaborate. And even though they’d come a long way, she wasn’t quite close enough to him to press.
Bea turned back to the group just as Georgina was saying, “The chef here is divine. He’s been married to the estate for fifteen years.”
“And to his sourdough starter even longer,” came Naomi’s droll addition.
Gage’s glass caught the light as he swirled it once. “The mothers chose a strong red this year.”
“The white’s better,” Georgie announced, ever contrarian.
“White says you’re here to behave,” Hunter intoned. “Everyone here knows you’re not.”
She smiled over her glass. “If I were really misbehaving, you’d already be in trouble.”
The exchange reminded Bea of a question she’d been meaning to ask. “This is kind of a tangent, but?—”
Naomi leaned in, delighted. “Those are the best.”
