“There you are,” he said.
Vigo let go of my hand to embrace his father. “Congrats, Dad. So proud of you.”
His dad pulled back and studied Vigo’s face. “Awards are meaningless,” his dad said. “It’s the work that matters.”
“Bullshit,” Vigo said. “You deserve this.”
His dad grinned and I caught a flash of Vigo’s roguish smile.
“This is Cassie,” Vigo said. “Cassie, my dad, Graham.”
Vigo’s dad extended his hand. “A pleasure. Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for having me,” I said, shaking his hand. “And congratulations on the award.”
“Sweetheart!” A slender blonde woman appeared next to Vigo’s dad. She pulled Vigo into a hug. “It’s been forever.”
“It’s hasn’t been that long, Mom.” Vigo hugged her back. “You look great.”
“Youlook great.” She pulled back to look at him and picked a minute piece of lint off his suit jacket. “You always did clean up well. I just wish we got a chance to see it — and you — more often.”
Her blonde hair was just beginning to silver, her chin imperious, neck as long as a swan’s. She looked elegant and chic in a simple floor-length green gown that matched the color of her eyes, the exact same shade as Vigo’s.
“We’re all busy,” Vigo said, turning to me. “Cassie this is my mom, Elise Fairchild. Mom, Cassie.”
We spoke for a couple of minutes — about the hotel, the canapés that Vigo and I hadn’t tried yet, the award Vigo’s dad was receiving for outstanding leadership in his field of Economics — and Vigo’s parents glided off to receive the adoration of the people gathered in honor of Vigo’s dad.
“Let’s get a drink,” Vigo said, leading me to the bar at one end of the room.
I wondered if it was my imagination that he looked strained, his smile and shoulders tight.
“You okay?” I asked while the bartender made our drinks.
He ran a hand through his hair. “This isn’t my scene anymore.”
“It used to be?” I asked.
“I used to think it was,” he said. “I used to pretend it was.”
“Why?”
“It was what my parents wanted for me.” The bartender put the drinks in front of us and Vigo put down a couple twenty dollars bills, then handed me the Shirley Temple I’d asked for.
“How do they feel about your… current line of work?” I didn’t want to name that line of work out loud since it involved robbing banks. The Hawks hadn’t mentioned the job they were planning in weeks, and I didn’t know if they’d put it off because of my accident or if they didn’t want to involve me.
“They don’t know.”
“What do they think you do?”
He grinned. “This and that.”
The music stopped playing. Someone next to the dais announced that dinner would be served and the ceremony was about to begin.
Vigo and I made our way to the table at the front where Vigo’s mom said we’d been assigned. We found our place cards, smiled a greeting at our tablemates (Vigo knew one of the couples, who were apparently old friends of his parents), and sat down just in time for the emcee to begin the award ceremony.
I had no idea what was going on or who any of the people receiving awards were, which was probably why it was, quite honestly, about as interesting as watching paint dry. But I tried to pay attention and be polite, smiling and clapping when someone took to the stage to receive their award.
We were served an assortment of bland banquet food that included bread, a side salad, and chicken piccata with green beans and rice. It was like being at a wedding with average food but without the fun stuff like dancing and cake.
