“Look,” she says, pointing out the red carpet leading from the driveway to the main doors.
I think I understand the purpose of these carpets at fancy functions now. I’m also starting to realize just how out of my depth I am.
Men in white ties and white gloves stand at the door, ushering us inside. The size of the foyer hits me like the first time I stepped off the train at Penn Station. It’s a cavernous space with sweeping staircases, marble columns, and ornate wood arches. There’s a fountain in the middle, and there are marble stands with enormous and fragrant floral bouquets. A chandelier bigger than my entire bedroom hangs from the ceiling, three stories up.
I remember all this from childhood, but it feels different now.
What the hell did I get myself into?
The backwoods kid in me is starting to feel self-conscious. Maybe Riley’s instinct to uninvite me was correct.
“What’s wrong?”
I look over at Riley’s lovely face and smile nervously. “You know when you visit a place as a kid, and it feels so big, but then it feels so small when you come back as an adult?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
“I’m having the opposite of that,” I say. “I’ve hiked every trail within a twenty-mile radius of Songbird Ridge. I’ve done the swinging bridge at Grandfather Mountain countless times. I’vebeen to the top of Chimney Rock and leaned over the railing and felt not a lick of nausea. But this place? It’s giving me vertigo.”
Riley’s grip on my arm is a vise as the ushers lead us to the double doors on the far end of the parlor, announcing us to the grand ballroom. Am I on a fucking movie set in England? What is happening?
My forehead starts to sweat, and Riley notices. “You want to leave?”
We lock eyes for a quick moment. Everything settles. I’m never like this, but now I know how she feels all the time in large groups.
She doesn’t need me to flake out right now. And I’m not going to.
I lean in and tell her with complete sincerity, “You’re the most talented, the smartest, the most beautiful woman in the room. No one deserves to be here more than you.”
I watch her take that in with one slow blink and a deep breath. Her brother Pete is headed our way, and she quickly mouths, “Thank you.”
And I’m on the job.
I shake hands with everyone in the room that Pete introduces us to. I crack jokes with everyone we know, but give lots of breaks in the conversations for Riley to interject. I keep her supplied with water and food as we work the room. All the while, she never lets go of my arm. No one seems to notice how nervous she is.
Most people think we’re in love and simply attached at the hip.
People in tuxedos and gloves swarm around the room carrying trays of tiny bites. There are people I know from town who are wearing their Sunday best and others who look like they walked off the pages of a magazine.
We make our way to our table, and I’m careful to steer her away from one particular table sponsored by Evergreen Tools. A couple of the executives seated there make eye contact with me, but they already know I don’t want to reveal my involvement with the company. Riley might not like the secret strategy that I’ve cooked up for tonight.
Riley sets her handbag down at our table, and I scope out the artwork on display. At the far end of the room, outshining all the other artwork, outdoing the ornate table arrangements and chandeliers, is the painting. The very one that Riley just finished last night, or this morning.
Even in this room, it looks big.
It belongs in a museum.
We do a circle around the silent auction, and I bid on several things, despite Riley assuring me I don’t have to.
“Well, that wasn’t bad at all,” she says as I pull her chair out for her when the emcee announces that dinner is about to be served.
“You did great, baby girl.”
She blushes as three other people’s heads swivel right toward us at that pet name.
I take my seat next to her, and she looks slightly mortified.
“Hey, folks. Has anyone seen Wilson Rogers tonight?” I look over and see my friend Foster taking a seat at the table.
