4. Mireille
4
MIREILLE
O n the evening of Thanksgiving, we were asked to join the family for cocktails in their formal living room. Betsy and I were dressing together in her room.
I stood in the front of the mirror in my underclothes, wishing I had something better to wear. The only dress I had for formal occasions, a dowdy blue wool that I suspected would be inadequate. The other women would wear silks and satins, bedazzled with ornamental jewels. Betsy would have gladly given me one of hers to wear, but the six-inch height difference between us made that impossible.
The fabric of my dress was soft but had lost its shape, and the hemline had begun to fray. My shoes, sensible black leather, were scuffed despite my attempts to polish them. Even the single strand of pearls at my neck—left to me by my paternal grandmother—seemed dull compared to the sparkling jewelry Betsy wore around her neck.
How grand she was. Despite my envy, it was impossible not to admire her.
Betsy wore a golden yellow floor-length gown made from a silky, flowing fabric with a V neckline and subtle pleating at the bust. A dazzling embellishment decorated the midsection, drawing attention to her narrow waist. Slightly puffed short sleeves balanced the gown’s slim, elegant fit. All of which showed off her superb figure.
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror next to my goddess of a friend and sighed. My small stature and petite frame seemed almost childlike compared to Betsy. But again, what was one to do? There was nothing to be done. This was the way I looked and the dress I could afford. One must get on with it and not make a fuss.
“You’re stunning,” I said.
“As are you. Although standing next to you makes me feel like a giraffe.”
“You’re not a giraffe.” I giggled despite my angst about my own appearance. “More like an elegant princess. Anyway, I look like one of the pesky squirrels I see outside our room.”
“Your teeth are nothing like those creatures. But you are rather quick-footed.”
“I am?”
“Yes, darling. Don’t you know yourself at all?” She gestured toward her dressing table. “But come. Let me fix your hair. I saw the most terrific style in a magazine that will be perfect for your thick hair.”
I did as asked, sure she would not be able to do anything with my mop of thick and unruly hair. Typically, I wore it in a simple style, pulled back and pinned neatly. By the end of the day, several locks had usually escaped.
Betsy stood behind me, combing through the thick curls and then rolling and coiffing until I had an elegant bun fastened with a sparkly clip that I suspected cost more than my dress. She then lent me a pair of dainty earrings that dangled just so. I couldn’t help but smile at my reflection.
“Do you want rouge? Powder?”
“I suppose so?”
Betsy laughed, already reaching for her cosmetic kit. “It shouldn’t be a question.”
Soon, she had me blushed and powdered and even convinced me to try a little cake mascara, which Betsy brushed onto my lashes.
I stared at myself, pleased. “I’ve never felt so pretty.”
“A woman should feel pretty every day. Now, come along. We mustn’t be late, or Mother will disapprove.”
We walked together down the grand staircase and into the drawing room, which buzzed with the lively chatter of the guests and their host and hostess. A quick glance around the room told me there were two other couples in attendance, both appearing to be around the age of Mr. and Mrs. Westbrook. Peter and George were in one corner of the room, looking slightly bored.
I breathed in the glittering room, catching wafts of expensive French perfume and the men’s brandies. A grand piano stood in one corner, its glossy surface reflecting the flickering light of the roaring fire in the marble hearth. Tall, gilded mirrors hung on the walls, amplifying the twinkle of the crystal sconces. Plush armchairs in jewel tones were arranged in intimate clusters.
Near the windows, a bar cart waited, stocked with crystal decanters filled with amber liquors, deep red port, and golden sherry. Silver trays held martini glasses, polished to perfection, alongside small bowls of olives and lemon twists for garnishes. The rich aroma of brandy mingled with the faint scent of cigar smoke drifting in from the library, where the gentlemen had gathered earlier.
“Don’t be intimidated,” Betsy said, just inside the entryway.
“How did you know?”
She squeezed my hand. “No one’s better than you. Don’t forget that.”
Mrs. Westbrook hurried over to us. “Dear girls, how lovely you look.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry about my dress,” I blurted out.
“Goodness me, don’t you dare worry about that. You look ravishing in whatever you wear. No dress in the world can take that from you. Come. Meet everyone.” Mrs. Westbrook guided me toward a woman wearing a tailored evening gown in a rich sapphire blue made of silk charmeuse. The dress was simple but impeccably designed, with a deep vee neckline and cap sleeves. A single diamond brooch was attached at her shoulder. Or maybe it was only glass? Either way, its sparkle mesmerized me.
“Mireille, this is my sister, Celia,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “Celia, this is Betsy’s friend from school. Miss Mireille Perrin.”
I bobbed my head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You’re French?” Celia’s gaze swept over the length of me and by the gleam of catlike malice in her eyes, I figured I came up short.
“Mireille’s family owns a winery in Bordeaux,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “Isn’t that interesting?”
“I’d have thought you’d be wearing something outlandishly fashionable,” Celia said, not entirely unkindly. More disappointed than critical.
French women were known for their style, but not all of us. Some of us were the daughters of grape farmers.
Celia, on the other hand, radiated an effortless elegance born from a lifetime of privilege and refinement. Her wavy chestnut-brown hair was styled in a sleek, shoulder-length bob, with sculpted waves framing her delicate features. A subtle eyeliner accentuated her almond-shaped hazel eyes.
The palms of my hands dampened.
“I must get a cocktail before we’re summoned to dinner,” Celia said before excusing herself.
Next, Mrs. Westbrook introduced me to Winifred Wilson.
“We call her Winnie because she’s married to a Fred. Can you imagine the odds of that?” Mrs. Westbrook asked.
“It’s ridiculous, really,” Winnie said, a boisterous laugh rising from her ample bosom.
Winifred had a softer, more matronly elegance than Mrs. Westbrook and her sister, although no less polished. Her golden-blond hair, streaked with subtle silver, was styled in a voluminous curled updo. Her round face was framed by soft curls, and her blue-gray eyes conveyed curiosity and a sharp intelligence. She wore a deep red lipstick and rouge that seemed almost too bright for her fair complexion. As did the set of rubies around her neck.
But her gown? I felt a jab of envy at the sight of the rich burgundy velvet fitted at the waist with a flared skirt that flowed gracefully to the floor, three-quarter sleeves, and a delicate lace inset along the neckline. An ostentatious cocktail ring with a large emerald flashed as Winnie took my hand. “Happy Thanksgiving, dear. It’s nice Betsy could bring you for the holiday.” She leaned close to me, almost conspiratorially, as if every word she said was meant to delight or intrigue, and wasn’t I the lucky one to be the recipient? “My husband’s just there, gobbling up canapés.” She pointed toward the rotund, balding man occupying a corner near the fire, stuffing hors d'oeuvres into his mouth.
“My brother-in-law is next to him,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “Stephen Bradford.”
Stephen Bradford was tall and lean, with impeccably tailored evening attire and the kind of upright posture that made me feel tired simply looking at him. A long and angular face, straight nose, and strong jaw were softened by the faintest shadow of a dimple in his chin. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed back, with a hint of silver at the temples. A fine gold pocket watch chain peeked from his waistcoat, and his polished leather shoes gleamed under the chandelier's light.
These were the rich of New England. How had I found myself here?
I thought of our holiday gatherings at home. Our friends and workers were of modest means. No one we knew owned a silk gown or a gold watch. I did not belong here. The awful, achy, homesick feeling washed over me. I missed my mother and father with an intensity I’d not known I was capable of. Not until I watched them disappear from sight from the deck of a ship. There were times at school that I almost forgot how far away from home I truly was. But here? Here I felt how different I was from those around me. And it opened up such a longing in me that I wished I was alone so I could let the tears flow. However, I had to keep myself together. If I embarrassed Betsy, I would never forgive myself. She and her family had been so good to me. The least I could do is act gracious.
Betsy smiled politely. “Winnie, it’s great to see you.”
“You’re looking well, my dear, if not a little more robust than last I saw you,” Winnie said. “Your mother says school is going splendidly. I never thought of you as particularly scholarly, but according to your mother, you’re at the top of your class.”
“Yes, thank you. It’s even better now that Mireille has come,” Betsy said with a quick smile in my direction. “In addition to our studies, I’ve been getting a lot of exercise at school, which has given me a healthy glow and muscular frame. It’s not like it was in your day, you know—encouraged to sit around eating cookies all afternoon while making polite conversation in the parlor.”
Winnie flushed and looked slightly embarrassed. She must eat a lot of cookies.
Betsy Westbrook was not one to be trifled with. I hid a smile behind my hand.
“Wonderful to hear. Just wonderful.” Winnie turned her attention to me. Similarly to Celia, her gaze swept the length of me, then looked up as if she were about to launch into a long speech. Thankfully, Betsy made our excuses before she did so.
“If you’ll excuse us, we must say hello to the boys.” Betsy nudged me toward George and Peter.
“They’re fairly horrid, those two, but Mother’s stuck with them,” Betsy said quietly as we crossed the room. “Celia’s her sister, and Winnie’s a friend from childhood. Secretly, I think she dislikes both of them, but she’s much too polite to say so. Regardless, don’t let them make you feel bad. They’re rich and bored, with nothing better to do than pick apart every female in their path.”
Betsy always knew just what to say.
A maid came by with two small glasses of sherry for Betsy and me. I was allowed to have wine at home but had never tasted sherry. The sharp taste wasn’t to my liking, but I wouldn’t have dreamed of saying so. The plan for tonight was to blend in, not stand out. So far, it wasn’t going that well.
Mr. Westbrook entered the room, nodding in our direction before heading over to the other men. I’d met him earlier in the day, and he’d been as warm and welcoming as his wife. He was in his late fifties, with a tall and broad-shouldered frame that suggested he had been athletic in his youth. Tonight, he wore a perfectly tailored black dinner jacket, a crisp white shirt, and a silk bow tie. His graying hair was combed back neatly, emphasizing his strong jawline, straight nose, and steel-blue eyes. Despite his formal appearance, William had a warmth about him when engaging with his family, his eyes softening whenever he looked at Betsy or Peter.
Betsy had told me that Peter often felt as if he disappointed his father and wished he could be more like George. It certainly didn’t appear to be the case to me. Instead, I’d gotten the impression they were simply different and, therefore, might not always understand each other.
Finally, we reached Peter and George, who both stood upon our approach.
“Ladies, you’ve left us here far too long to fend for ourselves.” George winked at me before leaning to give Betsy a kiss on the cheek. “That said, you’re worth the wait.”
“You both look beautiful,” Peter said before ducking his head to whisper in my ear. “I hope the ladies weren’t rude to you.”
“It’s the dress,” I whispered back. “It’s completely wrong. Old and outdated. Not appropriate for a party such as this, but it’s all I have. I think my lack of French style has insulted them.”
“No, it’s of no consequence,” Peter said, still quiet enough that only I could hear him. “You’re a shiny penny, no matter what you wear.”
I flushed with pleasure, touched by his kind words. “Thank you. But still, I feel underdressed and dowdy. Although you’re making me feel much better.” There was something so comfortable about Peter Westbrook. My instincts told me I could tell him most anything, and he wouldn’t mock or question me. Much like Betsy.
Peter was dressed in a classic black tuxedo with sharp lapels and a matching waistcoat tailored to perfection. His white dress shirt, crisply starched, peeked neatly from beneath a black silk bow tie.
George wore a double-breasted tuxedo jacket with peak lapels, its cut slightly more daring and fashionable than Peter’s traditional style. His white dress shirt featured pearl buttons, and instead of a standard bow tie, he opted for a black silk cravat tied in a loose, rakish knot.
That rakish knot? It was terribly attractive.
“Good evening and happy Thanksgiving.” A gold signet ring on George’s middle finger caught the light as he bent his head to kiss my hand. “I like your hair that way.” His words had a way of sliding up the back of my spine and into my chest.
George Winchester was indeed dangerous. I really should stay away from him.
But not tonight.
The Westbrooks’ dining room was breathtaking, a space so opulent it felt almost otherworldly to me. The long mahogany table gleamed under the light of a crystal chandelier, its prisms scattering rainbows across the walls and the gold-trimmed China. Heavy velvet curtains in a deep crimson framed the tall windows, their golden tassels brushing the polished floor. A roaring fire in the marble hearth cast flickering light across the room.
The table was set with crystal goblets and silverware so polished it reflected the candlelight. A magnificent cornucopia of autumn leaves, tiny golden pumpkins, and grapes spilled across the center. The aromas of roasted turkey, buttery mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes glazed with brown sugar made my mouth water.
My mother would have loved to see this table. She didn’t talk often of her childhood, but she’d been raised wealthy. As it turned out, her father was a mobster, but as a child, she’d had no idea what had provided the luxury. She never complained, but running the vineyard with my father was often difficult. There were seasons of grapes destroyed by weather or insects. Finding labor to pick the grapes and tend to the vines was difficult. Even during good economic times, wine prices were highly volatile, and many small vineyards failed to turn a profit. With the worldwide depression throughout the thirties, wine sales plummeted, especially because we relied heavily on exports, particularly in key markets like the US and the United Kingdom.
The irony was not lost on my mother that her father had earned his fortune because of Prohibition, and her husband’s family made wine.
There were place cards directing us where to sit. I was pleased to see that I’d been seated between George and Betsy. George held the chair for me as I sat, then pushed me closer to the table as Peter did the same for Betsy.
George leaned close, his breath warm against my skin. “What luck I have to be seated next to the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“I would question both your luck and your flattery,” I said quietly.
“I’m many things, Mireille, but I am not a liar.”
William Westbrook clinked a fork against his glass to get our attention. Below him, the golden-skinned turkey awaited his expertise with a carving knife.
“Father makes a spectacle of the carving,” Betsy whispered in my ear from my other side. “It’s quite funny.”
“Shall we pray before I cut into the sacrificial bird who has given his life for our enjoyment?” Mr. Westbrook asked after everyone quieted.
“Yes, we must say our prayers of thanks,” Mrs. Westbrook said, smiling. “Before making gluttons of ourselves.”
We all bowed our heads, and he spoke words of gratitude for family, health, and the hope for peace in the world. My throat tightened as he prayed for those far from home or living in areas worried about war.
When the prayer was finished, Mrs. Burns handed Mr. Westbrook a carving knife. Its metal glinted under the light as he raised it dramatically before slicing into the breast.
Mrs. Burns and a young maid stepped forward with platters of every side dish imaginable: stuffing rich with chestnuts and sausage, roasted carrots glazed with honey, green beans topped with crispy onions, and spiced cranberry relish. The women served with practiced efficiency, and soon, my plate was piled high with more food than I could possibly eat. I should be happy and light, I told myself. Yet a dull ache of homesickness had followed me into the dining room. Although we didn’t celebrate American Thanksgiving at home, obviously, my family cherished our long dinners, lingering over each course, wine flowing.
Beside me, Betsy must have felt my sadness because she squeezed my hand under the table. “I’m right here if you need a shoulder to cry on later.”
I squeezed her hand back in reply, not trusting myself to speak just then.
As the serving dishes made their way around the table, Mrs. Westbrook raised her glass. “Before we begin, I propose a toast. To family and friends. We’re blessed to have you all here, especially Mireille, who has brightened our home and our table.”
I flushed furiously, embarrassed as all eyes turned toward me. “Thank you,” I managed to croak out. “For having me.”
Everyone began to eat, including me. Every mouthful was as good as the last.
“This is delicious,” I said quietly to Betsy.
“Mrs. Burns knows how to make a feast worthy of kings and queens,” Peter said.
Across the table, Celia Bradford cocked her head to the right, looking at me with what I guessed was supposed to be taken as sympathy, but that sent shivers up my spine instead.
Celia sat forward slightly, her jewels clinking as she reached for her glass of wine. Served in the most divine crystal glasses, I might add. Again, my mother would have enjoyed seeing them.
“Your parents must have been terribly worried about the situation in Europe to send you all the way here,” Celia said. “Tell us, what’s it really like in France right now? Surely it can’t be as dire as the newspapers say?”
All eyes turned to me, and I felt my cheeks flush under the scrutiny. “Oh, well, I’m not sure.”
“Mireille might not be comfortable talking about this,” Peter said.
“Yes, it can’t be good for the digestion to speak of war,” George said.
“Yes, but we’re all curious, are we not?” Celia asked.
A quick glance at Mrs. Westbrook told me she wasn’t pleased with her sister. Not if her flushed neck was any indication.
“No, it’s all right. It is tense.” My voice shook slightly. “Which is why my parents felt I should come here.”
“Well, is there such a need to overreact?” Winnie Wilson asked, dabbing delicately at her lips with her napkin. “I read just the other day that Herr Hitler has no intention of starting a war. He’s simply trying to reclaim what rightfully belongs to Germany. That doesn’t sound unreasonable to me.”
“Winnie, don’t be absurd,” Mrs. Westbrook said sharply, though her tone remained cool. “You can’t possibly believe a man like Hitler has honorable intentions. It’s clear he’s after far more than what he claims.”
Fred Wilson leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and letting out a skeptical grunt. “So what do you propose, Lenora? That we drag ourselves into another war overseas? Didn’t we sacrifice enough the last time?”
William raised a hand to interject. “Fred, let’s not oversimplify things. What’s happening in Europe is a direct threat to democracy. If Hitler isn’t stopped now, his ambitions will only grow.”
“Exactly,” Stephen Bradford said, his voice clipped. “And while we sit here debating, men like him are seizing power unchecked. Mark my words, Fred, appeasement’s a fool’s game.”
Fred bristled, his jaw tightening. “And throwing American boys into another slaughter is the better solution? I’m not the only one at this table who remembers all too well the cost we paid last time. My mother certainly doesn’t, having lost two of her sons in some godforsaken trench in France.”
The tension at the table grew thick, the clatter of cutlery quieting as the men’s voices grew louder. I glanced at Betsy, who rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, “They’ll be at this all night.”
“What about your parents, Mireille?” Winnie asked suddenly, cutting through the men’s argument and returning the attention to me. “Why didn’t they accompany you? Move to America?”
I hesitated, my throat tightening. “The vineyard is their life’s work. It’s been in my father’s family for generations. It’s not so easy to leave one’s home unprotected.”
Celia tilted her head, her expression a mixture of curiosity and condescension. “But surely, darling, isn’t it cruel to send you away so young? It must be terribly lonely for you here, without your family.”
“I’m not lonely,” I said quietly, though the words felt thin. “Betsy has been very kind to me at school, introducing me to all the girls and making me feel welcome.”
“That’s our Boo,” George said, sounding proud.
Peter cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the din. “Her parents did what they thought was best, Aunt Celia. I don’t think any of us are in a position to judge.”
“Of course not,” Celia said smoothly, though her tone suggested she thought otherwise.
I shifted in my chair, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, feeling as if I might be sick.
Celia tilted her head, her sharp eyes fixed on me. “Mireille, darling, you mentioned your parents sent you here because they feared for your safety. Surely, they don’t think France itself is at risk, do they? The Germans wouldn’t dare invade. Not again.”
“Oh, yes, they dare.” My voice trembled. “My parents didn’t just fear for France. They feared for us in particular.”
“What do you mean, Mireille?” Mrs. Westbrook asked, her tone gentle but laced with concern.
I swallowed hard, my eyes darting to Betsy’s for reassurance. Her calm, steady gaze encouraged me to tell the truth. It may turn the room against me, but it was important to me that I didn’t hide who I was. “My father’s mother…my grandmother…was Jewish. Thus, we’re in particular danger.” The words felt heavy as they hung in the air, and for a moment, no one spoke.
Celia was the first to break the silence, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and discomfort, her tone a little too bright. “You’re a Jew?”
I shook my head. “My family worships in the Catholic Church. However, that doesn’t matter to Hitler. My father and I are considered Jewish under their laws, no matter what he believes or how he lives. My grandmother’s blood is enough to make us targets. We’re all quite aware of what Hitler thinks of the Jews.”
Winnie leaned forward, her brow furrowing. “But France isn’t Germany. Surely, the French wouldn’t go along with such nonsense.”
I hesitated, unsure how to explain what my parents had tried to shield me from. “My parents thought it was safer to send me here, where I wouldn’t have to worry about what might happen if…if things got worse. If Germany invades.”
Fred snorted, shaking his head. “The French should stand their ground. Let the Germans know they won’t tolerate that kind of nonsense. Your parents must have a lot of faith in America to send you across an ocean.”
“They do,” I said. “My mother’s American. My father said it was his duty to protect his vineyard, no matter the cost.”
Stephen, who had been watching me intently, spoke next, his voice quieter than before. “You’re right to be worried, Mireille. Men like Hitler don’t stop with one target. They need enemies to rally their people—real or imagined.”
“Imagined, exactly,” Fred interrupted, waving a hand. “Aren’t we giving him too much credit? All this fearmongering about what he might do.”
“That’s not what’s happening, Fred,” Mr. Westbrook said, his voice firm. “This isn’t fearmongering. This is preparing for the reality of what’s coming.”
Peter spoke up then, his tone calm but filled with conviction. “Mireille’s family’s right to be cautious. You can’t understand what it’s like unless you’ve lived under that shadow. We can sit here in safety, arguing about whether or not America will join another war, but she and her family don’t have that advantage.”
His voice was calm, but there was an intensity in his tone that made the room fall silent. He scanned the table, his gaze steady and deliberate, and when his eyes briefly met mine, there was a softness there that touched my heart.
“What’s happening in Europe is not just another political struggle or territorial dispute. This isn’t about abstract borders or even the rise of a dangerous dictator—it’s about people. Human lives. We’ve all heard about Hitler’s speeches, his Mein Kampf , the Nuremberg Laws.” Peter continued, his voice growing sharper. “They’ve made it clear who he blames for Germany’s problems: the Jewish people. Stripped of their citizenship, banned from professions, and excluded from society. This isn’t exaggeration or hysteria—it’s documented and reported in every major newspaper here and abroad. And it’s escalating.”
He paused, and his next words were heavy with anger. “Just weeks ago, the world witnessed Kristallnacht. Perhaps you read about it. Perhaps you didn’t. Jewish businesses were looted, homes destroyed, and synagogues burned to the ground while people stood by and watched—or worse, joined in. Thousands of Jewish men were arrested, dragged from their homes, and sent to prisons or camps. This wasn’t the act of a few zealots. It was sanctioned by the German government, orchestrated by Hitler himself.”
The room had gone deathly quiet. My throat tightened as Peter spoke further.
“And yet we sit here, comfortably removed, debating whether it’s even our concern. ‘It’s a European problem,’ some say. ‘It doesn’t affect us.’ But let me ask you this—how long do we turn a blind eye to evil before it finds its way to our shores? Hitler has shown us exactly who he is and what he intends to do. Do we truly think he’ll stop once he’s conquered France or Britain? He’ll need more enemies, more scapegoats, more fuel for his hateful agenda.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed, his voice lowering, but the force behind it didn’t waver. “And for what? To watch millions suffer and die while we justify our inaction with oceans and borders? To preserve our comfort while others fight for their very survival? People like Mireille’s family, who have already sacrificed so much to protect what little they have left?”
My cheeks burned, and my heart thudded under my ugly dress. Everything he’d said was true. But how did he know?
“Mireille’s grandmother was Jewish,” he said. “That alone makes her family a target under Hitler’s laws. Think about that. It doesn’t matter what they believe or how they live their lives—he has decided that their existence is a crime. If we stand by and let him succeed, we’re complicit in his hatred.”
Peter’s voice softened as he sank back into his chair. “I understand why so many want to avoid war. The last one cost us dearly—our fathers, brothers, and friends. All of you in this room know firsthand what we lost. But this isn’t just another war. This is a fight against a man and a regime that seeks to erase entire groups of people simply for existing. If we ignore this threat, if we dismiss it as someone else’s problem, then we abandon the very values we claim to hold dear: freedom, equality, and the right to live without fear.”
I stared at my plate, my appetite long gone, my heart heavy. He spoke the truth. I knew it, and everyone else around the table should, too.
My stomach clenched, thinking of my parents and the real danger they faced. Why hadn’t they come with me? We could have started over together.
Because we’re French. And we don’t back away when our very way of life is threatened.
Finally, Mrs. Westbrook broke the tension with a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Mireille, dear, you’ve shown remarkable courage through all of this. Your parents must be very proud of you.”
“I think they miss me more than they’re proud,” I said, voice breaking.
Betsy took my hand under the table.
George let out a low whistle in the quiet room. He lifted his glass of wine, his dark eyes glittering under the light. “I think it’s safe to say that if Hitler ever gets wind of Peter Westbrook, he might just surrender on the spot.”
Betsy groaned, rolling her eyes. “George, honestly. This is serious.”
“What?” George asked. “Our Peter’s brilliant. I’m just saying if words were weapons, we wouldn’t need an army. Someday, we’re going to see Peter Westbrook’s name on the byline of the finest newspaper in the country.”
Mrs. Westbrook reached for her glass of wine. “Although I agree with your assessment, dearest, I pray we never have to read what Peter fears will come to pass.”
“Amen to that,” George said, raising his glass. “Although our future is uncertain, we know two things tonight. We should toast Peter’s fine mind and Mireille’s courage. Which, by the way, we should all aspire to.”
George smiled at me, and I found that I could not look away, basking in the light that emanated from him.
I glanced across the table at Celia, catching her staring at me. She quickly glanced away and didn’t look at me for the rest of the evening.