a little seltzer water won’t fix,” I said as politely as I could under the circumstances. She was still apologizing as Peter took me by the elbow and steered me across the room and through a swinging door into the kitchen. The room was busy with staff cleaning up the remains of the elaborate meal, but a harried waitress pointed us to a side pantry in answer to Peter’s inquiry about seltzer.
This was just great, I thought to myself as Peter guided me across the crowded kitchen. Only a moment ago I’d been managing to dance and have a conversation with an attractive man simultaneously. Now I had a huge splotch all over the front of my dress and had provided him with a choice demonstration of just what a clumsy oaf I was.
Peter led us through another swinging door into the pantry, a small room lined with counters and cabinets. “Alone at last,” he said with a smile that acknowledged the cheesiness of his words. “But that looked like it hurt.” His eyes were filled with concern.
“Which part?” I asked, trying to put up a valiant front. “The puncture wound to my foot or the destruction of a perfectly good Armani? Do you think I should get a tetanus shot? Matthew probably has his doctor’s bag around here somewhere.”
Peter put his arms around my waist and set me on one of the counters. This simple gesture was almost enough to make me forget the pain I was in. He knelt to examine my foot, while I studied the top of his head. I gripped the edge of the counter tightly to prevent myself from running my hands through his hair, which was full and sun-streaked, with a couple of adorable cowlicks shooting off in unlikely directions. “Okay, there’s no blood. And I don’t think anything’s broken.” He rose to his feet and looked at my dress. “I wish that I could say the same thing about the Armani.”
I quickly inspected the Scotch-and-soda-colored stain spreading across the creamy silk. “It’s not looking good, is it?”
“Well, if the seltzer doesn’t work, maybe we could just get a bottle of whisky and dye the entire thing?”
“I’m sure Giorgio would applaud your creativity,” I answered gamely.
Peter began rummaging through the cabinets. “Peanut butter, Ritz crackers, Miracle Whip—wow, we are deep in WASP country, aren’t we?” He held up the jar for me to see, an eyebrow arched with amusement. “Here we go.” He replaced the mayonnaise and lifted out a plastic bottle of club soda. “It’s not imported, but it will probably work, won’t it?”
He found a clean dishrag and doused it liberally with the bubbling water. I knew it was too much to hope for that he’d swab me down himself; still, I was disappointed when he handed me the towel. I began dabbing gingerly at the stain, more shocked by the unexpected impact this man was having on my usually tightly guarded emotions than the damage to my dress.
Peter was standing gallantly by, proffering more seltzer and tactical advice, when I heard tense words pouring in from the porch adjacent to the pantry. I froze, surprised, when I realized that one of the speakers was Emma. She was so soft-spoken—it was rare to hear her voice raised, much less laced with the bitterness that now infused her tone.
“You have no right,” she was saying. “God knows, you seem to hold the world record in screwing up, so why should I listen to you? It’s the only way to fix everything, and you know that.”
“Emma, honey. You don’t have to do this. It’s not worth it. We’ll call it off, we’ll figure something out.” When I looked out the window over the sink, I could see Jacob Furlong’s hawklike profile illuminated by a single porch light. Only the top of his daughter’s head was visible.
She let out a laugh that sounded tinged with hysteria. “There is no choice. You know Mother wouldn’t be able to deal. She’s shaky enough as is.”
“Your mother—” began Jacob, then stopped. He sighed. “Look, Emma, it’s time for us all to live our own lives.”
“Like you ever stopped?” she retorted. “Don’t you think it’s a little too late to start playing concerned father?”
Jacob looked like he’d been slapped. His craggy features seemed suddenly old and weary. He passed a hand slowly across his brow.
I looked at Peter and he looked at me. Silently, he helped me down from the counter, and we tiptoed back into the kitchen.
At least, Peter tiptoed.
I limped.
CHAPTER 3
The dining room was emptying out, and only a few swinging diehards remained on the dance floor. Judging by the unenthusiastic way the band was plodding through an old Sinatra tune, they seemed ready to call it a night. I spied Richard near the wood-paneled door that led out to the foyer, bidding the departing guests farewell. His double-breasted suit still looked as crisply pressed as if he’d just left the tailor, and a silk handkerchief peeked neatly from his breast pocket. I’ve never understood American men who insisted on dressing like Eurotrash.
A moment later, Emma joined him, her lips tightly set in a strained smile. I guessed that she’d walked around the outside of the club and reentered through the front. Richard slung his arm across her thin shoulders in a proprietary manner that made me want to slug him. It was all I could do not to rush to her side, pull her free from his slimy grasp, drag her into a corner and find out what was really going on. I couldn’t recognize my best friend in the woman I’d overheard arguing with her father just a few minutes before, and I was even more concerned and confused now than I’d been all through dinner.
But she and Richard were surrounded; the odds of getting a word with her in private were slim. I would have to wait until the party was over.
Peter and I headed back to our table, picking our way through the maze of abandoned tables and scattered chairs. The gentle pressure of his hand on the small of my back ignited a minor fire that radiated from the base of my spine up my vertebrae, around my neck and up to my cheeks, which felt distinctly flushed. At least the pleasant warmth managed almost completely to eclipse the pain in my foot, if not the uncomfortable thoughts in my head.
Thankfully, the bland cousin and Richard’s dreary colleague had disappeared, leaving only my friends, who seemed ready for the evening to be over. They had pulled their chairs away from the table and into a small circle. Jane had kicked off her shoes and was resting her feet in Sean’s lap. He rubbed her toes with the practiced expertise and serene composure of a happily married man. Matthew was ribbing Hilary about something or other while Luisa looked on, her eyelids drooping with the late hour. She’d arrived just that morning on an overnight flight from South America.
As we approached, they looked the two of us over with uniformly bemused expressions. My rather long and distinguished trail of romantic disasters was common fodder for group conversations, and I could tell they were looking forward to having some new material with which to enjoy themselves at my expense.
Peter made his introductions while I sank into an empty chair. If he noticed the way that Jane elbowed Matthew or how Hilary raised one inquisitive eyebrow he didn’t show it. He bore up well under Luisa’s coolly assessing gaze and acted like he didn’t see the exaggerated wink Sean gave me or the finger I flipped back at him.
Jane and Luisa bent forward to examine the stain on my dress. “It doesn’t look good, Rach.” Jane’s voice was somber. When it came to weighty matters of what could and could not be removed from fabric, Jane was an expert. I gazed down at the brown splotches despondently. The soda water treatment may have lent some
