The library felt colder. I understood what she wasn't saying.
“Okay,” I said.
She pulled me close, kissed the top of my head. “Some gifts are just for us, Mr. Evan. That doesn't make them less precious.”
I believed her. But I also understood that the parts of me that felt happiest were the things I was supposed to keep hidden.
* * *
Wednesday evening. Present day.
The charity event is in a hotel ballroom that's trying too hard. Gold everything. Crystal everything. Enough poinsettias to deforest a small country.
My mother glides over in her champagne Chanel and links her arm through mine.
“Stop looking like someone canceled Christmas,” she murmurs. “You're the CEO. Smile.”
“I'm smiling.”
“That's your quarterly earnings call face. I need your 'happy to be here' face.”
I adjust my expression. She sighs but doesn't push it.
“Come. The Whitmores are asking about the scholarship expansion.”
She steers me toward a cluster of donors by the bar. I shake hands. I make appropriate responses about grant timelines and beneficiary outcomes. I am charming in every way my father taught me.
Behind us, I hear one of the catering staff swear very quietly.
My mother's grip on my arm tightens. “What now?”
The room starts to notice the problem in stages. First, the Parkers—who fund our environmental initiatives and haven't eaten animal products in fifteen years—receive plates of Beef Wellington. The crust glistens with butter. The beef is very, very rare.
Next, the Bishops—who own a chain of steakhouses and have probably never seen a grain bowl in their lives—receive quinoa, roasted vegetables, nutritional yeast. Mr. Bishop picks up his fork, puts it down.
A server rushes over to Mrs. Parker with apologies. The catering captain is in motion, directing staff, trying to swap plates without making the disaster more obvious.
Off to the side of the room, I notice the ice sculpture centerpiece—an elaborate winter scene with deer and pine trees. It's beautiful. It's also directly under a heating vent.
Water is pooling on the white tablecloth beneath it. Steady drips falling onto the donation pledge table arranged just below.
My mother and I exchange a look. She doesn't say it. She doesn't have to.
Holly would have caught both of these problems before the doors even opened.
Patricia Whitmore approaches, wine glass in hand. “Evan! I was just telling Richard—you two simply must come to our New Year's party. It'll be perfect, all the young couples, and Holly was so delightful at the gala?—”
“Patricia—”
“I'll have my assistant send the details. Eight o'clock, black tie.” She's already moving toward another conversation, waving over her shoulder. “Don't let her say no!”
She's gone before I can tell her there is no “you two.”
The ice sculpture continues its slow collapse, now missing most of one deer's antlers.
* * *
My mother finds me near the bar an hour later, when most of the guests have left and the catering staff is cleaning up the water damage.
