Dinner has beenover for an hour and the party’s still going strong. I had hopedguests wouldn’t linger too long after the meal, but no such luck.Blame it on the free-flowing alcohol and the fact there are serverscirculating with trays of tiny, delicious desserts.
Myfriends stick together, moving around the room like an inseparableflock of beautiful birds. Any time I’m with them for too long, mymom ushers me away to speak to someone else. While I knew there wasno point in asking her not to play matchmaker, Ididmake one requestbefore the evening began. It seemed like a simple enough request:no work talk. And yet, time and time again, Mom introduces me topeople who are in the market for real estate, and I end up talkingabout houses on the market, good investment properties, rentalopportunities, and, of course, my recent news-making deal with theMacKinnon Group.
“HughMacKinnon is my cousin, you know,” Fergus says, appearing out ofnowhere and addressing the elderly white-haired man I’ve beenspeaking to. “He asked me to move into the caretaker’s apartment inthe old funeral home after he bought it to keep vandals and suchaway while they organize a team to do renovations.”
The old man’sbushy eyebrows skyrocket. He fires off a series of questions atFergus, who slips in front of me and makes a subtle shooing motionwith his hand. Irritation surges through me until I realize hisintention is to save me, not snub me.
Making a mentalnote to thank Fergus later, I dash away. Unfortunately, I don’t getfar before I run into Ned. I swallow the groan that rises in mythroat, covering it with a delicate cough.
“Youseem to be in a hurry to get somewhere, Evelyn.”
And yet he makesno effort to get out of my way and let me pass. My mom sure knowshow to pick ’em. “I was just looking for my friends.” I make a showof peering around the room. The show becomes real when I don’t spotthe girls anywhere.
“Theywere all clustered around your mom with Wesley a few minutes ago,”Ned says. “Wesley was doing all the talking and then the four ofthem disappeared.”
“Oh.” Icontinue searching the room. There’s no way they’d leave withouttelling me.
“I’mmore than happy to keep you company.” He doesn’t give me a chanceto speak before he launches into details about a case he’s workingon. Since my mother drilled good manners into me from a youngage—and forced me to takeactual etiquettelessonsafter she started hosting eventsfor my dad’s coworkers and clients—I try my best to pay attentionto what Ned is saying. It quickly becomes evident he’s one of thosepeople who talksatyou rather thantoyou, so my efforts turn to hiding the disinterestfrom my expression while I cast surreptitious glances around theroom in search of escape.
I’m half listeningto Ned, my eyes nearly crossing from boredom, when my gaze lands onmy dad across the room. I send him a beseeching look, giving him mybest ‘please get me out of this conversation’ eyes. Amusement playsacross his face as he takes a few steps forward. My relief isshort-lived as someone intercepts him. Dad shoots me an apologeticlook over the man’s shoulder. If I’m not mistaken, he’s now givingoff his own ‘someone save me’ vibes.
I’ve alwaysconsidered my dad an extroverted introvert, or at least anintrovert who’s good at putting on an act. When I was little, heseemed to thrive at the casual parties my mom hosted, and he wasthe grill master at our many summer barbecues. That continued for awhile after we moved here, and our barbecues included pool partiesin the Olympic-size pool out back. Things soon changed, though;those relaxed gatherings became fancy cocktail and dinner parties,charity events, and fundraisers.
Dad alwaysappeared at ease as he circulated, but at nearly every event, therewas a point when he’d slip away for a short period of time.Eventually, I realized he was going up to his office, and I assumedMr. Workaholic was handling business. My curiosity got the best ofme one night about ten years ago, and I followed him. Instead oftaking a call or banging away at his computer like I expected, Ifound him sitting in the dark save for the glow of his Tiffanylamp, feet propped on the corner of his desk, and whiskey tumblerin hand.
He invited me in,poured me a glass of the Jameson whiskey he apparently kept hiddenin a drawer in his desk, and we sat in silence. Since that night,it’s been our secret ritual at nearly every event my mom hosts.Sometimes we sit quietly, and other times we talk about work andlife, books we’ve read, or places we’ve discovered around town. Icherish those times, and I was looking forward to our getawaytonight, but it appears it might not happen.
Athroat clears beside me.Oops. I haven’t even been pretendingto listen to Ned. He wasn’t the one trying to get my attention,though, which I realize as I glance up into Fergus’s moss-coloredeyes. Disappointment rushes through me at the sight of his coatdraped over one arm, until I notice my coat is tucked underneathit. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been sent to collectEvie.”
Ned issurprisingly gracious about the interruption. Fergus places hishand on the small of my back as he leads me across theroom.
“Whereare we going?” I ask, and then in the same breath, add, “Actually,you know what, I don’t even care. I know we only met tonight, butyou’re officially my new favorite person.”
Fergus chuckles.“I’m honored.”
We make our waythrough the house to the kitchen, which is still bustling withstaff. At the French doors that lead to the backyard, Fergus donshis coat and then holds out mine for me to slip my arms into. Themoment he opens the door, I catch the scent of woodsmoke in theair. Like countless other times in the past few days, I’mtransported back to my childhood: cookouts, bonfires, camping inthe backyard of my childhood home.
It’s a perfectautumn evening, with a slight chill in the air, and a full moonilluminating the yard. The moon isn’t the only bright spot outhere; flames dance in the firepit past the pool. In the glow of theblaze, I can see my friends sitting on the padded benchessurrounding the pit.
Fergus grins downat me as he offers me his arm. I hook my arm through his, and weset off across the perfectly-manicured lawn.
Wesley is thefirst one on his feet. He thanks Fergus for getting me out here,and Fergus squeezes my arm before moving to take the empty seatbetween Hollie and Louisa.
“How onearth did you manage this?” I ask.
“I usedmy powers of persuasion on your mom,” Wesley says, taking my handand leading me to the bench where he was sitting. “I told her beingback in town was making me nostalgic and I wanted to recreate amoment from our childhood.”
I glance around atmy friends’ smiling faces. “And she actually went forit?”
“Shemade me promise to save her a s’more.”
“Thereares’mores?” Myears perk up at the mention of the treat I haven’t had in years.Even though I’m stuffed full of turkey, half a dozen side dishes,and a giant slice of pumpkin pie, I can always make room fors’mores.
Stella holds up abag of jumbo marshmallows, while Hollie brandishes a box of grahamcrackers and a giant chocolate bar.
“I alsoswiped a couple bottles of wine for us to pass around,” Wesleysays.
“Thatwas never part of our childhood bonfires.” My voice wobblesslightly as an expected wave of emotion washes over me.
