Saturday afternoon, Celia was strapped at the inn’s front desk for hours, trying to remedy the situation with her father and Ivy, both of whom had mentioned how “lackluster” Celia’s commitment to the inn currently was.Celia floated from one end of the front desk to the other, making jokes with the guests and singing Christmas songs.Twice, she heard different guests tell her father how “mesmerizing” his daughter at the front desk was.“You’re so lucky to have a young woman like that as your daughter,” another older woman said.“She’s such a charmer.”
Her father always thanked the guests and told them that yes, he was well aware of how lucky he was.This was nothing he’d ever translated to Celia.She wondered how much of it was the truth.
At six o’clock sharp, Celia begged Ivy to take her place at the front desk so she could get ready for dinner.Ivy grumbled and tilted her hips to the side.“Why should I?”she asked.“It’s your turn.You should have to work all weekend long.”
“Ivy, you don’t get it,” Celia said.“When you’re a senior, you’ll understand how important everything I’m doing is.Like, everything matters when you’re a senior, because you’re preparing for the rest of your life.”She wasn’t entirely sure if that was true, but it sounded nice.
Eventually, Ivy was worn down enough to take her place.Celia was so thrilled that she hugged her, whispering that she’d make it up to her one day.Being in love with Hanson Smith made her want to be a better person.It made her want to love her sister Ivy better and empathize with everything her father was going through.When she found her father in the kitchen of their house, stirring soup for the little girls, Celia swatted him away, telling him to rest for a little while.She had just enough time to feed Juliet and Wren, put on her makeup, don the green dress Hanson liked so much, and head to dinner.Her father looked both flabbergasted and exhausted.“You’ll know how hard it is when it’s on your shoulders,” he said as he limped down the hall to his study, where he was sure to have a nightcap and fall asleep in his chair.
Buttoning her green dress upstairs, Celia practiced what she’d say to Hanson when she finally told him how difficult her relationship with her father was.“He doesn’t stop to think about any of our feelings,” she whispered.“I think he looks at us and sees our mother and remembers how much he hated her.It’s like he didn’t want her to be here anymore, but her death has made everyone feel bad for him, and he likes that.”As soon as she said it, shame welled in her chest.
When she reached Hanson Smith’s Victorian mansion, it was five minutes past seven, and she was out of breath.A squat woman in an apron opened the door and gave Celia a once-over that told her just how “different” Celia was from the other guests.As Celia followed the maid down the hallway, she listened as one of Mr.Smith’s guests regaled everyone with an exuberant story about something called the Venice Biennale.Celia had never been to Italy, so she couldn’t fathom what it was like over there.She shivered, thinking about all the lives she wanted to lead.
Most of the guests were seated in what seemed like an ornate living room.The men wore suit jackets and shiny shoes, and the women wore sleek black gowns and dangly earrings.They blinked at Celia with a mix of intrigue and dark humor, as though she were there to put on a show.Celia swallowed and wondered if Hanson was making a joke of her.Maybe he’d decided to break up with her in the cruelest way possible.
“I’m a friend of Hanson’s,” she said, her voice more confident than she felt.“Is he here?”
Suddenly, Hanson appeared in the far doorway.He looked bigger than she remembered and wore a suit jacket like the other men in the room.In his left hand, he carried what looked like a cocktail, which was remarkable.Her father would have never let her have a drink, not in the house.Not at seventeen.
“Hi,” Hanson said stiffly.In his eyes was something like regret.“You made it.”
Before she could say hello back, Mrs.Smith announced that it was time to gather around the dinner table for the first course.Her eyes scanned over to Celia, assessing her, before she spun around and disappeared.Celia ached to take Hanson’s hand, the way they did in the forest or on the cove all alone.They followed the others to the table, where Celia sat next to Hanson and folded her hands on her lap.Long, slender candles flickered in the center of the table, and every glossy face was illuminated.Various perfumes and colognes mingled, making it difficult to breathe.
Celia told herself to take in every bit of the scene, to really see what was happening between Mr.and Mrs.Smith and all the guests.If she planned to have a future with Hanson, she needed to know how to act.She knew they sensed she was a poorer girl from a poorer family.But she resolved that they would never think that about her again.
The first course was something with mushrooms, plums, and balsamic vinaigrette.Celia wanted to close her eyes and savor every morsel.She wanted to be able to recount every bit of its flavor palate to Landon later, as Landon appreciated food just as much as she did.But she knew Landon would scoff at her decision not only to date Hanson Smith but to attend his swanky Christmas party.She imagined him saying,They’re not the kinds of people we hang out with, Celia.They’re not like us.They take and take and take.
But the conversation was some of the best that Celia had ever heard among adults, at least at first.They spoke about literature, about theater productions they’d seen in New York City, about actors they’d met at various parties, about new corporations that were pledging to “save the world” or “make something incredible happen.”Celia recognized that if she played her cards right, she would meet plenty of people like them at Georgetown.She wanted to be able to speak like them.She sought to read every type of book.
It wasn’t till the third course that the attention fell upon her.
An older gentleman who worked as a painter and sculptor in a seaside town not far from Bluebell turned to look at her and Hanson, raised his shaggy white eyebrows, and said, “Aren’t you two quite a handsome pair!”
Celia’s cheeks burned, but she smiled back at him, realizing that this was the first time anyone in the world had referred to her and Hanson as a couple.“Thank you,” she said meekly.
“Oh, Harold, they aren’t a pair,” Mrs.Smith countered, throwing her head back.“Hanson’s dating the ballerina down the road.The Swanson girl.Aren’t you, Han?”
Celia didn’t dare look over at Hanson for fear of what she’d see in his face.
But Hanson chimed in, “Penelope and I broke up last year.”
“Oh, you’re always breaking up and getting back together,” Mrs.Smith said.“You know how the kids are these days, Harold.”She grinned.
But Harold wasn’t done with her, as though he saw Celia as a bone he needed to pick.“What’s your name, dear?”
Celia felt all eyes upon her, waiting.“My name is Celia.”
“Last name?”Harold pressed it.
“Harper.Celia Harper.”
Whispers fluttered from all corners of the table.Although she couldn’t fully understand what anyone said, Celia let her fork drop with surprise and looked at Hanson for an explanation.Hanson looked bug-eyed and unsure.But it was Mrs.Smith’s face, three seats away and across the table, that stopped Celia’s heart.All the blood drained from her cheeks, and she shot daggers at Celia with her eyes.
“Your father is James Harper?”Mrs.Smith demanded.
“That’s right, ma’am,” Celia said, her voice simmering with anger.She wasn’t sure why she was being made out to be a criminal.She’d done nothing wrong.
“And your mother was Margaret Harper?”Mrs.Smith demanded, her hand in a fist.
