“There you are, darling. Pour me a glass, will you?” She nods at the wine bottle next to me.
I pour her a glass to match mine.
“You know, Holly would have prevented all of this,” she says, echoing the sentiment her eyes were communicating earlier.
“Yes.”
She studies my face, looks at me in a way she hasn't in years. “Give her space, sweetheart. Let her come to you when she's ready.”
“What if she's never ready?”
“She will be.” My mother pauses. “She seems wonderful, Evan. Truly. But in our world, people will always question why she's with you. They'll assume it's about access, about money. That gets exhausting. Is she prepared for that?”
I run my finger along the rim of my glass. “You know who I really have to watch out for? Women like Ainsley Pembroke. The ones who see the family name, the portfolio—and think that's what matters. Holly sees me. Not the CEO, not a Bellamy bachelor. Just ... me. That's worth more than all the 'appropriate' matches you could arrange.”
My mother considers this. “You're not wrong about the ‘Ainsleys’ of the world. Perhaps there is something to that.”
She squeezes my arm. “Holly told me at the gala about your weekend in Pinewood Falls. That you stepped in as a party parent for The Nutcracker when someone got sick.”
I didn't know they'd talked about that.
“She said you looked just as gallant and comfortable on that community theater stage as you do working the room at foundation events. That you belonged in both places.” My mother's voice softens. “I wish I could have seen it.”
I hear what she's not saying—an apology, carefully offered.
“I saw how she looked at you at the gala. Before any of this. You've already won her heart, dear. That's bigger than whatever scared her.”
* * *
Home by ten. Apartment dark except for the city lights coming through the windows.
The apartment is too quiet. The silence that used to feel peaceful now feels like a held breath. Like waiting for something that isn't coming.
I move to my bookshelf and study the bottom shelf, where I keep things from childhood I can't quite throw away—debate trophies, prep school yearbooks I never open, the balsa wood space shuttle missing one wing.
I pull out a large, leather-bound book. The cover is worn, corners soft from gentle handling over the years.
Inside the front cover, Elsbeth's handwriting—elegant, old-fashioned, each letter perfectly formed:
For Mr. Evan, who understands that the best performances are the ones where you forget you're performing. Joy doesn't need permission. It simply needs courage.
Love, E.
I trace the words with my finger.
I sit down. Open the book in my lap.
Joy doesn't need permission. It simply needs courage.
I flip through the pages I devoured as a child. The story of The Nutcracker, with a history of various productions around the world. Beautiful costumes, magical scenery.
A ticket stub falls out.
The Nutcracker, Lincoln Center,
December 2010.
The year after Elsbeth died.
