Chapter 20 – Daisy
L earning the moves with every misstep.
From the moment I set foot on the icy blue carpet surrounded by sparkling holiday lights, I feel like I’m living out some I’m-a-celebrity daydream. Or maybe nightmare. So many people are calling Grant’s name and mine, too. “How do they know me?”
“The marriage announcement in The Chronicle .”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“You say absolutely nothing to any of them,” Grant snorts, contemptuously.
“Is that a Barclay family rule?”
“It is. There’ll be more to teach you before Vancouver.”
“I’ll get my next set of flash cards started.” He gifts me with one of those precious and fleeting smiles and, emboldened by that, I ask if he ever says anything to the press.
“Me? The society page would die of shock if I actually spoke to any of them.”
“My grumpy and aloof snob of a husband.”
“Yes, with a heart of stone. I’ve worked hard at crafting that reputation. I don’t plan on spoiling it.”
Stifling my laughter, I keep my mouth shut but I do smile at everyone. They’re just doing their job though I wish their job didn’t involve flash photography. I’m rendered temporarily blinded when I’m caught like a deer in headlights one too many times.
Fortunately, my husband’s stride never falters. I’m whisked past the zealous sea of paparazzi and into the slightly less hectic Russian Hill party venue, decked out to the max as expected for a charity ball hosted by a slew of billionaires. I barely notice Grant removing my wrap and passing it to some attendant when there’s already a cold glass of champagne being handed to me. “Let us not attempt to catch every fly in the place, Daisy.”
Blushing, I realize my mouth was hanging wide open. It couldn’t be helped. The giant, illuminated snowflakes suspended from the ceiling are breathtaking. “Are those real crystals?” I ask.
“Apparently.” Grant takes a sip of his champagne and promptly makes a face. “This is rubbish,” he declares, passing both glasses back to the server. “Surely to God, we can serve decent fermented grapes after the price we paid for those enormous monstrosities.”
“I thought the champagne was good.” He presses his lips together and I can tell it’s an effort for him not to contradict me. “The snowflake sculptures are beautiful, too.” I may be poking the bear a bit.
“No, those look like gaudy, supersized costume jewels. You are beautiful.”
Much as I want to argue that point, he steals my breath with the compliment and I can’t unsee what he said when I look again. “What is tonight’s charity?” I ask once we have what Grant deems acceptable champagne in hand. “The Foundation for Starving Artists Who Create Enormous Earring Sculptures?”
He smirks before answering. “Each partner typically chooses one and we split the pot between them but there were some last-minute changes this year.” Something in his tone makes me turn to face him. “It was decided that the Peat Moss Renewable Energy Study-”
“The what?”
“…might not be quite as important as supporting programs that deal with more immediate humanitarian issues. The partners have agreed all donations will go toward the Bay Area’s homeless population tonight, by way of local shelters, soup kitchens, clothing drives, organizations that build suitable housing, etcetera.”
Blinking up at him, I ask, “Who chose that?”
He glances away as though he’s embarrassed to answer. “I did.”
“When did you choose that?”
Lightly, he takes my hand and his thumb starts to caress my palm sending tingles all through me. “Rather recently. Daisy, after believing you’d spent the money on yourself… You shamed me.”
“What?! Grant, I wasn’t-”
“I deserved to be ashamed. Your generosity is something I wish came more naturally to me. I intend to work on that.”
“You’ve been generous with me from the start.”
He shakes his head. “Not enough. Would you care to dance?” he asks, sweeping aside all charitable talk.
With my murmured ‘yes,’ he moves us to the dancefloor. Once there, he holds me close, studying my face. He looks gorgeous in his tux and his mouth-watering scent causes heat to lick its way along my limbs and settle between my legs.
He only wants a year but I wonder how I’m not meant to fall for him. Mom and Mimi always lamented that we Potter ladies had abysmal tastes in men but couldn’t I just as readily fall for a good man? I’ve never truly fallen in love. What if I got it right the first time?
“Forgive my tediousness as I repeat myself but you look very beautiful, Daisy.”
A billion butterflies escape their cocoons and spread their wings in my belly. “Thank you. You look very hand-”
“Do you think we’re convincing at all?”
“Convincing?”
“As the very much in love newlyweds?” he clarifies, jerking his chin to indicate all the people around us.
Never an accomplished dancer, I miss my step. Like someone placed a kill-jar inside of me, all my butterflies stop flapping, succumbing to their fate. Grant does not love me so I cannot fall in love with him. We have an arrangement, a marriage to benefit us both and nothing more.
“I… I’m not sure. Perhaps if you kissed your wife…”
Grant’s strong jaw clenches and he scowls at something over my head while gracefully continuing the dance. “I’ve never kissed my wife, have I?”
“Just my forehead.”
“But never your lips.” I shake my head in response, tiling my chin up with the meager hope I hold onto. It’s a hope that’s going to be unfulfilled. “Daisy, what I did the other night over the phone-”
“What we did,” I correct.
“After all you’ve suffered… after your step-father…”
“That has nothing to do with us. My past doesn’t get to decide how I live my life. You didn’t force anything on me the other night. I called you. I asked for it. Stop making it something you chose. Do you understand me?” My chin has started to tremble but I will not break down, not here, not now.
He searches my eyes for a long while before answering, “Yes, I understand. Forgive me for not remembering that it’s your freedom to choose as well.”
Yet, he does not kiss me on the dancefloor as I hoped.
To ignore the pang of rejection in my chest, I focus on my steps and the music. It’s something old and slow and appropriate for the season. “I just realized it’s getting very close to Christmas. Has the house been decorated while I’ve been staying with Mimi?” I ask, trying to regain some of the lightness from earlier.
“Radcliffe has people scheduled to come on Monday to manage that.”
“People?”
“Decorators.”
“But… won’t we do any decorating ourselves?”
“You mean, you and I?” I nod and he looks at me like I’m deranged. “I’ve never decorated for Christmas in my life. There were always people who did that.”
“I imagine there were always people who did a great deal for your family. Are you blushing, Mr. Barclay?”
“Me, blush?Ridiculous.”
But, he is. “We didn’t have people. We just did it ourselves back when... it’s been three years since I’ve done any decorating.”
“Decorating the house for Christmas,” he muses. “Would it please you to decorate?”
“Yes. At least, the house. Not the entire estate. It’s too large.”
“Very well. I’ll tell Radcliffe.”
“And, will you help me do it?”
“We’ll see. End of the year is a busy time for a CFO, Daisy.” That sounded a lot like a no.
Glancing around the ballroom, I can’t help admiring all the beautiful ladies in their evening gowns. “If we weren’t married and you were here on your own, which one of these women would you be most likely to go talk to?” I ask, tipping my chin toward the crowd.
He scowls, looking around. “None of them.”
“None? Are you that particular or-”
“I’d much rather talk to you.”
I wonder if he’s humoring me or if he means it. “Why did you want to marry me?” He raises an eyebrow and, for once, it’s him who stumbles his way through the dance. “Sorry, I said that wrong. I know you didn’t want to marry me in particular. But why didn’t you want to marry someone else? Someone for love?”
“Because of my parents,” he clips, his expression turning shuttered in a heartbeat.
“Why do you say-”
“Which is not something to discuss here. If you learn nothing else about being a Barclay, remember this - our hearts are never open for the casual inspection of others.”
I’ve said something wrong again. I should know better than to hope I’ll ever say everything right.
The song ends and Grant nods toward the head of the room. “Time to say hello.” He ushers me toward a large table where his partners and their ladies are seated. “Just remember,” he murmurs in my ear as we draw closer. “We’re the very happy newlyweds.”
“I know how to play my part,” I reply, feeling anything but happy.