I shake off the thought. Maura wouldn’t want my pity. Instead, I try to refocus on the conversations around me.
“You have a houseguest next week, right?” Cat’s asking Brinley.
“No, she had to cancel.” Brinley sighs. “I’m hoping she’ll make it next month.”
“Who’s visiting?” Luke asks.
“Eden. She was my best friend when I was a kid,” Brinley explains to Maura. “She’s thinking about moving to Toronto, and she promised she’d visit and check it out.”
Luke stiffens, his smile frozen in place. The women don’t seem to notice, and I file it away for later.
“Are you sure she actually wants to move here, or are you trying to force it?” Cat asks.
“Maybe I’m forcing it alittle,” Brinley admits. “But I’m sure once she gets here, she’ll love it. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Looks like everyone’s done with dinner, which means it’s time for cake!” Ryan declares.
Beau and Luke exchange worried glances. “I’ll go get some plates,” Luke announces, heading back toward the kitchen.
“I’ll start cutting slices,” Beau says.
Maura whispers, “What’s the deal with the cake?”
“Ryan’s the world’s worst chef, and the most sensitive. You’re about to see a piece of theater that may or may not go terribly.”
She hums and sits back in our chair. We both watch as Luke rushes out of the kitchen, carrying a stack of dessert plates. Beau pretends not to see him, turning abruptly and “tripping” Luke. The plates go flying, and they both crash into the cake.
“Oh my god!” Pippa cries.
“Are you guys okay?” Cat asks, taking her napkin off her lap and hustling over. Nate stops her.
“You’re wearing sandals,” he growls. “I don’t want you cutting your feet.”
“Sorry about your cake, sweetie,” Pippa says, patting Ryan on the back. “I know how hard you worked.”
When Ryan’s looking away, though, she gives Luke and Beau a thumbs up.
Maura leans over to me. “While they’re busy cleaning up, could we have a word in private?”
“Of course.”
I escort her to an alcove of the restaurant where we won’t be overheard. Maura shifts, crossing her arms over her chest and looking down at her feet. For the first time all night, she seems truly nervous.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“It’s fine,” she says, and bites her lip.
“The party wasn’t too informal? I know my friends can be a bit much.”
Maura smiles. “No. Informal is better, if you ask me. I’ve been dragged to fundraising banquets and galas since I was an infant, and I’ve had enough canapes to last me a lifetime.”
“Me too,” I admit. “Lots of time in child tuxedos. Charities always want movie stars at their fundraising events.”
She shudders. “They shouldn't even make child tuxedos. Let kids wear what they want, for god's sake.”
“I didn't mind the tuxedos,” I say, surprising myself. “And my parents always let me explore when I got bored. The kitchen staff always gave me treats.”
Something flickers across Maura's face—curiosity, maybe, or nostalgia.
