Chapter Nine #2
"We founded Mercer Nair twenty-one years ago. This is the project we kept saying we were not ready to pursue."
"We were raising Sophie. Paying loans. Building references."
"All true. Also afraid."
Eleanor touched the laptop. "Are we ready now?"
"No. Readiness is the story people tell after receiving the commission."
They went to the kitchen, opened a bottle of sparkling cider Gabriel kept for staff birthdays, and toasted without Alexander. It was their firm's work before it was his decision.
At noon, Daniel confirmed that the person who took the orchard photograph had used a public trail above the estate. The image contained no identifying metadata. The prepaid number was dead.
"No one has approached Sophie again," Eleanor said.
"Correct. We've found no evidence of intrusion since security began."
"Then tonight I attend the benefit."
Daniel adjusted his glasses. "I wasn't aware you had reconsidered."
"The benefit raises money for the town archive. Halcyon needs local trust. If I stay away because someone photographed me, the photograph becomes an instruction."
"Alexander will be there."
"I had heard billionaires enjoy canapés."
"He won't like you treating security casually."
"Fortunately, he doesn't employ me to be liked."
Daniel's mouth moved. "No. That would be inefficient."
Sophie arrived in the afternoon with garment tape, three lipsticks, and opinions.
"The red dress," she said immediately.
"I brought a blue one."
"The blue one says public-radio pledge drive."
"Public radio performs useful work."
"Not tonight."
It had hung in the cottage wardrobe for three weeks.
Eleanor had brought it from San Francisco when Sophie insisted she stop attending public meetings dressed as a "very competent mushroom.
" The silk crepe fell below the knee, with a wrapped bodice and sleeves that showed her wrists.
She had worn it to Sophie's graduation, a museum dinner, and Martin's last partnership celebration. It belonged to her history, not to him.
In the cottage, Sophie steamed it while Eleanor showered. The room filled with heat and the smell of damp silk.
"Are you going to sleep with him?" Sophie asked through the bathroom door.
Eleanor nearly dropped the soap. "There are questions a daughter may keep."
"I am not asking for detail. I am asking whether you are ready for the headlines if you do."
"Headlines do not receive a vote."
"No. But they may receive photographs."
Eleanor came out wrapped in a robe. "I don't know what will happen. I know I want him. I know wanting him is not a reaction to your father, though the timing will let people say it is."
"Do you trust Alexander?"
"Enough to tell him no. Enough to believe he will hear it."
"That is more than Dad heard at the end."
"Your father and I stopped saying enough to test it."
Sophie set down the steamer. "I am glad you want someone. That sounds strange."
"It sounds adult."
"I am trying it."
She selected the least dramatic lipstick and fastened Eleanor's gold earrings. Eleanor left her silver-threaded hair loose and looked at herself in the spotted mirror above the dresser.
No younger woman looked back. No abandoned wife, either. Just Eleanor, visibly nervous and unwilling to apologize for it.
"You look like you," Sophie said. "Only less apologetic."
Eleanor wore her own red dress into a future no daughter, husband, or newspaper had chosen for her.
Alexander's car arrived at seven.
He came to the cottage door himself.
His dinner jacket was black, his shirt white, his bow tie properly tied rather than clipped. Eleanor's gaze traveled from his shoulders to his hands before returning to his face. His attention moved over her more slowly.
"You look beautiful," he said.
The simplicity defeated the clever answer she had prepared.
"Thank you."
He offered his arm. "The car is on the public road. No hidden photographers unless Crescent Cove has become very ambitious."
"You know I won't be hidden."
"Yes."
"And I won't pretend the orchard photographs were false."
"No."
"If anyone asks whether we kissed, I intend to say it is none of their business."
"Would you like me to say the same?"
"I'd like you to tell the truth in whatever words belong to you."
He watched her for a moment. "Then we understand one another."
The Lantern Room occupied the top floor of an old cannery above the harbor. Tall windows faced the water, and iron machinery remained between tables dressed with white linen. The room smelled of salt, candle wax, grilled figs, and the faint engine oil no renovation had erased.
Conversations changed as Eleanor entered on Alexander's arm.
She felt the room take stock: billionaire, married architect, red dress, age difference too small to be scandalous and wealth difference large enough to compensate.
Nora Bell marched across the floor and kissed Eleanor's cheek.
"Good," she said. "You wore a color."
"Priya called my gray dress funereal."
"Priya is correct more often than is comfortable."
She pulled Eleanor toward a group from the historical society. Alexander released her arm without resistance and went to speak with Mara Quinn.
For the next hour, Eleanor discussed archival storage, trail maintenance, hotel occupancy, and the mural. People asked difficult questions. Would Vale Meridian control the town? Would room rates make the cove another playground for the rich? Would artists become entertainment for hotel guests?
Eleanor answered what she could and admitted what remained unresolved. She proposed community seats on the trust board and public days in the winter garden. By the time dinner began, the room had not been won, but it had begun to listen.
Alexander found her near the machinery display and handed her sparkling water with lime.
"You remembered."
"You dislike champagne before food."
"I told you that once."
"You said it clearly."
She thought of Martin bringing her champagne at every office celebration because he preferred it himself.
"Thank you," she said.
"Are you all right?"
"Ask me after dinner. I may be transformed by salmon."
"Nora says the salmon is overcooked."
"Nora says joy is overcooked."
His smile reached his eyes. Eleanor felt its answer in her body.