Chapter 3
The unexpected guest arrived just as dinner was about to begin.
He wasn’t in the Gold Room for cocktails when Fern entered, wearing the red gown and hitching her chin higher than ever before.
Judge Adair was once again holding court at the wet bar, surrounded by the evening’s guests: a very recognizable congressman from their ward, another one of Fern’s uncles (she seemed to have an endless supply), Buchanan, and two unfamiliar men, both of whom were talking with her brother.
It might have been the dress, or the way she held her shoulders squarely, but as Fern joined her mother by the sofa and fireplace, she felt the eyes of the men following her.
She surprised them all, and herself, by turning and meeting their pointed stares.
She didn’t look away, even when her cheeks grew hot, and her heart thumped madly in her chest. Fern simply raised one eyebrow and silently dared them to be the ones to look away first. They were.
Her mother must have sensed trouble. She widened her eyes at Fern several times during cocktails, when Fern admitted to disliking green (the color of her aunt’s gown), asking loudly for a second martini, and saying that she was excited to bob her hair like her cousin, Patrice, who was unfortunately not present.
Tension rolled from one corner of the room to the other.
It was perfect.
Mr. Tate entered the Gold Room and pulled Judge Adair into the foyer just as the announcement for dinner arrived.
When her father didn’t immediately return, the remainder of the party filed into the dining room and took their seats.
Fern’s seat never changed — she was always placed at the center of the table, with her back to the massive oval mirror accenting the wall.
Her mother assumed she wouldn’t wish to look at herself during dinner.
The judge’s absence extended another five minutes, during which throats were repeatedly cleared and polite inquiries about the menu made.
Finally, Fern’s mother requested the soup course.
However, before the bowls could be brought in, two servers whisked into the room and, with a bow and apology to Mrs. Adair, began to lay out another place setting.
“What is the meaning of this?” she asked the uniformed server.
“At the judge’s request, ma’am,” the boy replied, his cheeks and ears flaming.
An excited murmur worked its way around the table, and Fern was suddenly happy she hadn’t stayed in her room.
The servers had barely finished laying out a fanned, mint-green napkin, gleaming cutlery, and a spotless wine glass when Judge Adair entered the room. He wasn’t alone. There was a collective shudder of motion as people turned in their seats to view the unexpected guest.
He looked to be in his early thirties and was dressed as well as any of the other men in the room, if not better.
His fine, pin-striped suit accentuated broad shoulders, and the close fit made Fern think it had been tailored to his specific measurements, not purchased ready-made.
He wasn’t wearing a tuxedo bow as the others were, but a long, creamy white tie tucked into his vest.
“Forgive my absence,” the judge began, his gaze springing from face to face without settling on any of them for more than a breath. “I was welcoming our last guest of the evening, Mr. George Black.” He then quickly took his seat, seeming to collapse into it.
Mr. Black’s attention rested first on the hostess, Fern’s mother. “Good evening, ma’am.”
Her mother’s glossy red lips parted in surprise, and belatedly, she stumbled over a greeting in return.
As the mysterious man walked behind guests on the opposite side of the table from Fern, a few twisted to keep him in sight, Buchanan among them. He stared at the newcomer with open hostility, his hand closed in a fist where it rested on the table linen.
“Mr. Black, is it?” her brother said without an ounce of warmth.
A server held out the chair for Mr. Black.
He took his seat, placed awkwardly between Fern’s mother and her uncle, Horace, then focused on laying the napkin across his lap.
Only then did he cock his head of thick, wavy hair, a tricky shade somewhere between black and brown, and lock eyes with Buchanan.
Those eyes. They weren’t bright and vivacious like Mr. Clifton’s, or like those of half the other young men her mother had herded into their house week after week.
Everything about Mr. Black was cheerless and somber, even his copper-brown eyes as they glared at her brother.
Without uttering a single word, Mr. Black had given him an explicit warning to back off.
“Mr. Black is in the supply business,” Fern’s father offered while indicating to one of the servers that wine was in order.
Buchanan snorted a harsh laugh. “Supplies. That’s a gas.”
She sat up straight in her chair, for once completely absorbed in the conversation. Her brother had never treated any of the dinner guests as rabidly as this.
“What sort of supplies?” Uncle Horace inquired.
“The liquid sort,” Mr. Black answered, the glare he held on Buchanan unbreakable.
Liquid? Oh. Fern bit her lower lip just as Aunt Tabitha made a croaking gasp of realization.
The man was a bootlegger.
Buchanan cut his eyes away from their new guest at last. Since her brother was seated directly across from Fern, he ended up glaring at her instead.
Mr. Black followed the direction of Buchanan’s eyes, and his dark stare settled on her.
For the briefest moment, his steady expression faltered; his tensed brow smoothed as surprise distracted him.
Then, just as quickly, his brows tensed again, notching a line between them.
Had Mr. Black not expected her face? Her mother’s ruffled manner made it absolutely clear that he wasn’t one of her trinket-enticed bachelors. So, what in the world was Mr. Black doing at their dinner table?
The soup course was delivered, then a Caesar salad topped with anchovies, and Mr. Black had still not engaged anyone at the table in conversation.
No one attempted to engage him either. In fact, by the time dishes of chocolate mousse were placed before them, the conversation had flagged multiple times.
Fern’s father picked up the threads, with help from her aunt and the congressman, but her mother was of no assistance. Fern had never seen her so flummoxed.
Meanwhile, Mr. Black ate every morsel on every plate set before him.
He’d covered his wine glass when the server came around with a carafe of merlot and instead requested a glass of milk.
Milk! Fern was so enthralled that she barely noticed the bachelor who occupied the seat to her left, or the one sitting to her mother’s right.
Hardly anyone had a chance to taste the mousse before Judge Adair abruptly set his napkin on the table and stood. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve had enough of this grape juice. I could use a real drink. Shall we?”
There was a near crush as everyone jumped from their seats and hurried toward the dining room doors.
Even Fern’s mother’s chair practically toppled back onto the carpet.
Fern, however, stayed in her seat, raising a spoonful of chocolate mousse to her mouth while watching Mr. Black.
He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get himself a stiff vodka or whiskey in the White Room either.
Instead, he spooned up some of the mousse and observed the mass retreat with disinterest. He set down his spoon and drained his glass of milk.
Mr. Black noticed her across the table and relaxed back into his chair.
She dabbed at her lips to make sure no chocolate clung to them.
“I don’t believe anyone has asked for milk with dinner since Buchanan and I were children.” She said it before she even knew she was going to speak. Was it possible for a blush to begin in one’s chest? Hers started there, hot and jarring.
“More people should,” Mr. Black replied. “It’s good for your bones.”
“Are you not going to have a drink in the White Room?” He certainly didn’t look like he was getting ready to leave the table.
His expression of unimpressed boredom stayed steady. “What’s the White Room?”
“My mother’s parlor.” Then, again without any hesitation or thought, Fern asked, “What are you doing here? You weren’t invited.”
Well, someone had to ask, and seeing how the room had emptied except for the two of them, there was just Fern to do it.
Mr. Black sat forward, elbows resting on the table, fingers laced together. One thumb rubbed against his chin, darkened by what she assumed was an ever-present five-o’clock shadow.
“Maybe I invited myself. I heard Saturday night dinners at Judge Adair’s were a real laugh.”
Her back stiffened. “I don’t find them that entertaining. And I don’t think you came here for a laugh.” She doubted he laughed much at all. “What kind of business do you have with my father?”
He stared at her for a moment, as though stunned by the impudent question. She was a little stunned herself. Mr. Black parted his lips to speak when Buchanan, accompanied by one of the bachelors, returned to the dining room.
“Fern.” His voice was like a pistol shot. “What are you doing?”
She scowled and set her spoon back into her mousse. “Finishing dessert.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “The ladies are waiting for you.”
She pushed back her chair. “I highly doubt that.”
If only the others had failed to notice her absence for another minute, she might have had an answer from Mr. Black.
Buchanan shifted his attention toward him. “The staff are waiting to clear the dinner table.”
The chill rolling off him could have frosted the crystal chandelier above them. Mr. Black, however, smiled and got up. He buttoned his suit jacket while staring her brother down.