It took her nearly a minute to reacquaint herself with reality while I looked around at everyone, wondering what in the world I had done wrong.
Béatrice Brigitte, delivered the correction. She didn’t scold. She smiled. A tight, pleasant, hostess smile she probably wore at fundraisers and donor brunches, and in a chilly, passive-aggressive tone that chastised me as if I were a smudge on her pristine tablecloth, she remarked, “We have a butler, dear. It’s his job to help with the gravy.”
I notice Beau raise his eyebrows, then situate them quickly back into place.
Then I slip back into the memory.
“Yes? Does that make sense, Maisie? It is Maisie, right?” Béatrice Brigitte was still watching me, expectant.
I nodded, as if I were back in kindergarten agreeing to the classroom rules.
“Of…um…of course, Mrs. Fairchild, I’ll ask the butler next time,” I replied dully.
Her smile didn’t waver, but it tightened, just enough to make the air colder.
“Maisie. Hmm… how whimsical. Almost Bohemian. Were your parents,”she paused, lips pursed, as if the next word physically pained her to say, “artistic?”
She turned ever so slightly toward Gray, her voice still gentle and perfectly audible.
“You’ve always been drawn to the more... free-spirited types.”
I smiled, but it was reflexive—thin, already fraying. Then I summoned my voice again and tried to make conversation.
“Gray tells me you love spending time in your garden.”
Her eyes snapped to mine at the wordGray, drilling into me, but I didn’t notice. Not then. I was already spilling forward, eager to connect.
I went on without stopping, explaining that I wanted to be a florist and suggesting maybe we could walk through the garden together later.
Then came the correction, clipped and unmistakable.
“Grayson,” she said, sharp and stern.
What?I blinked, scanning my mental Rolodex. Had I said the wrong name?
“His name is Grayson,” the Ice Queen enunciated, perfectly pointed. “We have an image to uphold. We do not refer to him asGray.That’s so… pedestrian. But I do love your creativity and… enthusiasm.”
The warmth drained from my cheeks. I opened my mouth. Shut it again. Too late to rewind. Too early to escape.
Gray placed his hand over mine, resting it on my thigh, and whispered to me, “Why don’t you let me do the talking from now on, babe?”
Later, as we were leaving the Fairchild mansion, Béatrice Brigitte had one more comment for me. “Well. I guess there’s a slim chance this might work between you two. But, Maisie, darling, why don’t you work on your etiquette and have Grayson explain our lifestyle more thoroughly before you visit again? I really couldn’t tolerate a repeat of this evening. My nerves are quite delicate.”
Beau seems to understand my need for silence to compose myself as I enter back into present time. His gaze is steady and calming. Without pulling away, he gives me room to decompress, making space for my emotions and further words if I need.
The fire crackles, one last log collapsing into embers. I change positions, and the movement stirs the candle’s glow across the floor. Time settles in slow layers between us, unhurried, while shadows sway gently along the walls. The weight of my story floats in the room between us, like muggy air.
Finally, he says simply with an empathetic tone, “I’m sorry Gray did that to you. Sorry they did that to you.”
I nod, wondering if he’ll say more, or if he’ll let the pause stretch, giving room for thoughts neither of us have spoken yet.
Beau stays quiet for a beat longer. I hear the fire settle as if it’s listening too. Then he exhales slowly and scoots an inch closer to me, voice low.
“I was with someone, once. We met through music, late-night writing sessions, and arguments over which lines hit hardest. She had a voice that demanded an audience and an insatiable yearning for fame.”
He runs a hand over his jaw and sips his now lukewarm cocoa.
“We connected over rhythm, lyrics, the way a song can carry more truth than a conversation ever could. I thought we had something special.”
