Chapter Eight
Late Night Talking
Three days later, without seeing much of each other, Finn ran into Flora in the kitchen, where she was cooking with Rosa.
Flora stood over a bowl, mixing with aggression, muttering to herself as he walked in looking for a snack. A pile of brownies sat on the table.
“Hi,” she said, as if they were old friends, barely looking up from the bowl.
“You look angry.”
“I’m not a good cook,” was all she said back.
Finn had been reaching for a brownie but retracted his hand a second later.
She snorted. “Those are safe. Rosa made them.”
He shoved one in his mouth and leaned against the counter, watching her struggle with the whisk. She gave up, set it down, and then sat down on the floor in distress.
“You look like you’ve been shot,” he muttered.
“I have been. By the Pillsbury Dough Boy.”
Finn snorted and found himself actually laughing.
Flour was sprayed all over her clothes. Her glasses—which she seldom wore anymore—were smudged with chocolate.
“Is this for the party tomorrow?” he asked.
“Sort of,” she said, staring at the ceiling. “Rosa has been trying to help me learn to cook, and the dessert portion of the party seemed like a safe place to start. But have you ever tried to really cook and do a good job at it?”
“I have not,” he replied, taking another brownie.
Finn was an unapologetic junk-food-aholic. If it was salty, sugary, buttery, crunchy, and came in a box, he’d eat without hesitation.
“Did you not learn to cook at all in Paris?”
“I tried, but usually someone was cooking for me.”
He assumed that someone was Alexandre, the guy she had dated when she was there but seldom mentioned. He found it very interesting that she’d said “someone” and not mentioned his name.
He could see her lost in thought now. Thinking about something or someone. Finn didn’t like that.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.
“Mmm… contemplating life, then spiraling into depression,” she replied, sighing. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve got a bunch of meetings in the city before the party,” he sighed too now as if they were taking turns.
“So we’re in the same boat.”
“I guess. I don’t want to go to the party. I can’t even remember what it’s for.”
“I don’t know. Summer something?”
Finn grunted. “Summertime sadness.”
Flora started humming the old Lana Del Rey song.
He was sick of his mom’s parties—overdone, overfunded, overcrowded. One of their biggest expenses annually. Finn had to suck it up though because his mother was, well, his mother.
“You guys have so many stupid parties.” Flora said, laughing. “Summer this, fall that.”
“Don’t get me started,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
“They are so beautiful, though,” she replied, sitting up finally. “If you’re going to have a zillion parties, they should be done right, and they always are. You should try to enjoy them once in a while and stay off your phone.”
“So you weren’t just watching Roman from the tree then, huh?” he asked, grinning widely.
Flora threw a dish towel at him. “Finn Woodhouse!”
“Just couldn’t keep your eyes off me.”
She balled her fist.
“I’m kidding!”
So was she.
“I saw everything from that tree,” she replied. “Literally everything.”
“Well, now you don’t have to,” he said, an added note of seriousness slipping in “Come tomorrow. With me. Although, I think the tree is a better idea, frankly.”
Flora never thought she’d get another invitation to a Woodhouse party full stop, but she would have lost millions if she’d ever bet on Finn asking her to one.
She tried not to look shocked.
“I don’t know, Finn,” she shrugged. “I don’t really… fit in with your family’s people. I’m the nature girl with overalls and crazy hair. I don’t give myself airs. Especially if I’m going with you. You’re… Finn Woodhouse. The Finn Woodhouse.”
Finn eyed her. “Flora, you rock the overalls, and you have the coolest hair I’ve ever seen. And what does that mean? ‘I’m Finn.’ I’m just a person.”
Flora was shocked again. That was a compliment from Finn. It was soft too, not direct, not showy, but just enough to raise her pulse.
She almost wished he’d elaborate.
“Come on,” he said, reaching for a jar of peanut butter pretzels. “It’ll be fun. 1920s-era orchestra, stuffy people, boring conversation. Plus, I’ll be far less likely to be on the phone if you’re there.”
The next day, Flora found herself getting ready for her second Woodhouse party. But this time not with Roman. Roman was still mostly in bed watching Family Ties reruns, really milking his recovery now. So, this party? This party was with Finn.
Finn, the lightning rod of the business world and not-so-broody Woodhouse brother. She never imagined they would exchange more than a sentence to each other.
She eyed herself in the mirror before walking out. Silky emerald dress with a halter back—the one she’d bought with Les Faucheés—black heels, an updo, only wishing she had diamond earrings to add to it. Not too bad.
She wanted to look good, though impressing Finn seemed unlikely. Nothing she did would undo the years of adolescent awkwardness he’d witnessed. He probably still saw her as the frizzy-haired, weird, chauffeur’s daughter who belonged amongst the cows. He’d never see her as anything but.
And, to be honest, she was most at home among the cows… and she had no problem with that.
Flora lollygagged, as she usually did, on her way there, stopping to stare at the purple roses growing on the fence near the meadow. She stuck her nose in one, wanting to know exactly what it smelled like. Pepper, oranges, and chocolate.
So absorbed in her own world, she didn’t see Finn standing there waiting for her. She jumped slightly when he called her name.
“Oh! Finn! Sorry. I was thinking about roses.”
“Of course you were,” he replied, smiling.
“I see the name of this one is ‘Annie’s Revenge.’ What a boring name.”
“What would you call it?”
“Scavenger Figure Skater.”
Finn paused. “What?”
“Look how the stems twist and turn, like a figure skater. And then look at the rose itself, it’s growing so haphazardly on the vine. Reminds me of a scavenger.”
Finn stared at it. She wasn’t wrong.
Flora smiled. “Sorry. Enough of my rose ramblings.”
Finn felt an odd flutter in his stomach. He shook his head, wondering if he had eaten something bad earlier. But he’d only eaten a plain bagel in a hurry to get to a meeting. He had a troublesome stomach due to stress, but he had never known bagels to make him queasy.
“It does smell good though,” she added, grabbing the back of his head by force and shoving his nose into one of the roses.
He blinked, startled.
“See? Doesn’t it? Smells like chocolate and pepper.
What sort of food is there tonight, do you know?
Rosa wouldn’t tell me. She didn’t want me to get any bright ideas.
I wouldn’t have dared to try anything, but she kept it to herself.
Also, I was thinking earlier today that you might try investing in an estate zipline to get from place to place. Or a ski lift. What do you think?”
Finn informed her of the food, said he would definitely think about an estate zipline or ski lift, and then within minutes they were quickly roped into a very boring conversation with a one Mr. Rosenberg, who was yammering about business.
Flora now knew the textbook definition of “bored to tears.” Yet she had to pretend to be interested in whatever this very dull, very boring man was saying. He kept looking at both of them to see if they agreed with him.
Finn was all politeness, of course, but his repeated “uh huh,” was in the same tone of voice reserved for being told you’re going to a work-mandated seminar on Marketing in the 21st Century.
“If profits don’t at least double this year, I’d say we have another three years before a recession,” Rosenberg droned. “We aren’t in excess yet, but we’re getting there. No inventory at all on the market. None at all…”
“Uh huh,” Finn repeated.
Flora knew why he didn’t go outside during these shindigs now. People must have talked nonsense to him all the livelong day at work. Then to be forced to listen to even more nonsense after work? Well, that was too much to take for a person who was only twenty-nine.
Everyone who didn’t get a piece of him that day, or even that month, was trying to find him to yak his ear off about some ill-conceived product for him to buy into or force him to hear their guess for when the market might crash next or ask him how the blasted merger was coming along so they could pull stock out now and not later.
Flora wanted them all to sink under the grass.
She was midway through mentally planning how to set a tablecloth on fire without being caught when someone tapped Mr. Rosenberg on the shoulder.
Finn grabbed Flora’s wrist as quickly as he could and pulled her through the crowd before Rosenberg could turn around.
“Let go!” Flora said, wrenching away. “You have an iron grip!”
“Flora, quit trying to get away! You’re my one excuse! Have some mercy on my poor soul,” Finn hissed. “Oh God, not the Andersons!”
They both looked up. Directly ahead stood Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, clearly preparing to engage.
Flora had no desire to get caught in yet another conversation about markets and losses, so she shoved Finn onto the dance floor where no one would bother them.
They sort of stumbled onto the floor, excusing themselves to the people around them, then stopped.
“I don’t really want to dance,” Flora whispered.
“Neither do I.”
“But I don’t want to talk about the stock options either. And every single person around this dancefloor is eyeing you like they’ve got something boring to say.”
“Dancing it is,” Finn agreed, extending his hand. “M’lady.”
Flora mock bowed. “Sir Woodhouse.”
The band was playing Just the Way You Look Tonight, and Finn—classically trained in dancing (much against his will)—wasn’t sure how Flora was going to behave during a big band music set.
He’d only seen her at a rock concert.
Much to his surprise, she had no trouble. In fact, she was quite at ease on the dance floor.