Chapter 43
ASSIGNED SEATING
On a normal day, the dining hall feels like hallowed ground—hushed, haunted, trapped in time, like it’s been holding its breath for the last thirty years. Tonight, it’s as imposing as ever, with its arched windows and stone fireplace. But something feels different.
Maybe it’s all the people inside the room.
Or maybe it’s the disappointment inside of me.
I try to shake it off, but it clings like a dryer sheet.
There’s a flurry of movement as guests find their seats around the palatial table, which has been polished to a sheen and immaculately set.
Red linen napkins, gold-trimmed china with matching goblets, small embossed menus, and place cards have been perfectly arranged in front of each chair.
Seats have been assigned—Isabel’s undoubted attempt to avoid something so scandalous as the estate’s groundskeeper rubbing elbows with Ignatius Bogaard.
“I hired Theo Ashcroft,” Isabel says while Everett pulls out her chair.
“Theo Ashcroft?” Camilla lifts her thin eyebrows a fraction, as though reluctantly impressed. “I heard his wait list for private parties was quite long.”
Isabel smiles smugly and sits at the head of the table. I can’t imagine it’s her first name-drop of the night, nor will it be her last. She seems to understand that the Bogaards are using the evening to silently assess her, and she’s determined to give them very little to criticize.
Everett sits to her right, picking up a silver spoon as though appraising its value.
Cosette sits to her left.
Behind me, Sterling escorts his great grandmother, Opal—a relic of a woman dressed like a widow in mourning—to her place beside Ignatius.
It’s almost laughable, the way Isabel has arranged everything.
A sliding scale of wealth and influence with the Bogaards and Everlys closest to her, my dad and the Calloways farthest away, and the Kapoors and the Ridleys in the middle.
I expect to find my place card next to my father’s at the very end of the table.
But the calligraphic name on the card isn’t mine.
It’s Jude’s.
Rafe catches my eye and motions to the chair next to his on the elite end, a placement that makes zero sense. Negative, in fact. Until I notice Isabel’s furrowed brow and realize Rafe has done some last-minute maneuvering.
Heat tangles in my chest.
Judging by the flush in Isabel’s cheeks, she isn’t too pleased either. Especially when she spots Jude sitting with the peasants. I can almost see her panic, the cogs in her brain turning as she scrambles to cover up the horrifying faux pas.
“Denis,” she says with an airy laugh. “It seems you forgot to move my son’s chair to the foot of the table. I understand he’d like to sit with his guests, but I would appreciate if he sat opposite me.”
My attention zips to Jude.
Isabel’s use of the word son has his golden brown eyes flashing.
“My apologies, madam,” Tulane replies with a bow, moving Jude’s chair so it mirrors his stepmother’s—prominent bookends at opposite sides of an impressive table. “I must have misunderstood the placement.”
He didn’t misunderstand anything, but Tulane plays along like it’s his sacred duty to shield the mistress of the manor from any breach in decorum.
And maybe he has, but it doesn’t change where I’m sitting—amongst the town’s nobility, separated from my dad and Twig and the rest of the Calloways with Jude in full view while Rafe pulls out my chair.
Once everyone is settled, Isabel gives a toast.
“Tonight, we honor the restoration of a cherished tradition that once gathered our town’s founding families in fellowship and goodwill.
Time changes a town, however, and traditions must sometimes widen to reflect the community it has become, honoring those who laid the foundation…
” She nods at the Bogaards. “And those who now help shape its future.” She inclines her head toward the Everlys.
“We are also reminded, in trying times like these, to not only uphold tradition, but to extend hospitality.” Her smile turns glacial as she looks toward the far end of the table.
I had no idea the word hospitality could sound so pejorative.
“I’m thankful to Jude for opening our home to those he holds dear. ”
Isabel lifts her glass. “To Christmas Eve, to Foggy Hollow, and to brighter days ahead.”
Everyone at the table responds in turn and takes a drink.
I can’t help but share an amused glance with Twig, who hasn’t missed a beat of her condescension.
To keep from snickering, I read the menu on my plate, taking note of the luxurious dishes, half of which I don’t understand—words like pancetta and haricot verts and a dessert called B?che de Noel.
Tulane claps his white-gloved hands softly and announces the first course. Servers dressed in black come out from the kitchens carrying porcelain bowls of butternut squash bisque.
“Isabel,” Everett says, “the aroma alone is worth the evening.”
She preens beneath his praise, as if she herself did the cooking instead of the highly sought after Theo Ashcroft.
Spoons are lifted.
Bites are taken.
Compliments ensue.
None of them are wrong.
The soup is delicious—warm and sweet with savory undertones. But not even the burst of flavor can chase away my lingering sense of disappointment.
Conversation spreads and splinters down the table.
I let it float around me, falling deeper into despair.
I’d been so sure, so positive my mother had left something in that book.
I felt it deep in my gut, as deeply as I have felt her presence.
A certainty that she is alive, that she is close.
But I was wrong about the letter, and if I was wrong about that, then can I really trust my gut at all?
I must not be hiding my turmoil very well, because Rafe leans close and whispers, “Tell me, Miss Whitlock, what injustice could possibly outweigh a bisque so divine?”
His mock formality sets my teeth on edge. “Other than the seating arrangements?”
“You don’t like the upgrade?”
Refusing to look at him, I take another bite.
“Seriously,” he says. “What has you so upset?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the thought of a monster feeding on my classmates?” Movement in the window catches my attention. I half expect to see a hellhound prowling through the orchard. Instead, it’s a deer etched in shadow, its white tail blending in with the snow.
“Is that all?” he asks.
I huff.
Is that all.
That is plenty. And yet, it isn’t everything.
Still, I’m not sharing my disappointment with him.
Especially not with Jude watching our conversation unfold.
His gaze is hot and sharp. Rafe seems to be enjoying the attention, which has me white-knuckling my spoon, feigning rapt interest in the Bogaard’s European travel plans later this spring.
The second course is a winter salad of baby greens, roasted pear, candied walnuts, and blue cheese tossed in a light vinaigrette. I’m not typically a salad kinda gal, but I scarf it down like finishing my plate might get me out of here faster.
Talk on my side of the table turns to philanthropy.
Rafe whispers running commentary in my ear.
Across from us, Opal Bogaard keeps peering suspiciously in our direction, like she recognizes him from somewhere seedy but doesn’t want to say, because saying would be admitting she was somewhere seedy, too.
It’s an interesting distraction. One that has me breaking my vow of silence.
I lean back in my seat and mutter from the corner of my mouth, “Are the two of you acquainted?”
“Who?” Rafe asks.
I point with my eyes when the old lady isn’t looking.
He smiles. “We may have indulged in a little flirtation back in the 1950s.”
I drop my fork, and for the first time this evening, I turn to look at him. “She knows who you are?”
“She suspects,” he says with a wink.
“You’re not worried?”
“She’s very old, Selah. She gets confused. A little mixed up, if you know what I mean.”
I risk a quick peek.
Her beady-eyed stare is aimed right at us.
I take a drink of mulled punch—a gulp, more like.
Rafe leans so close, his breath tickles my ear. “At least, that’s what her family thinks. Something tells me she’s as sharp now as she ever was.”
The servers bring out the main course—plates of beef tenderloin cooked medium rare. Pancetta, it turns out, is something like bacon without the smoky flavor. And haricot verts are very slim green beans that taste better than any green bean has a right to taste.
Conversation is warm and lively on the pauper’s side of the table, performative on the other.
Like me, poor Dr. Arjun Kapoor, who is very down-to-earth for a cardiologist, is trapped on the elite side, while his wife, Priya, tries to bounce back and forth.
Mayor Ridley does the same. He asks Kate about the high school’s production of Into the Woods, which was recently announced and even more recently cast. She’s playing the baker’s wife.
Her boyfriend, Harrison, is playing the baker.
On the other side, talk has turned to the estate’s restoration, and Opal Bogaard—who has yet to speak a word—seems to have had enough.
She points her fork at Mr. Everly, who has been bemoaning the decline of true craftsmanship.
“Yes, yes, Henry,” she says in a reedy voice that is surprisingly loud.
“They simply don’t make things like they used to.
Take this table.” She raps it sharply with her bony knuckles, effectively collecting the room’s attention. “Is it an original?”
Isabel nods warily.
“So this is where they were sitting when they just—” Opal makes a poofing gesture with her fingers. “Vanished.”
Twig coughs, his mouth full of food.
Dad thumps him on the back.
Ignatius gives his grandmother a stern look.
She stares back at him with a thin, satisfied smile, like she wouldn’t mind if he vanished, too. “Funny how everyone thinks these new disappearances are connected to the one that happened here.”
“Grandmother,” Ignatius warns.
She waves him off with her fork, then points it at me. “I’d like to know what you think.”
“Me?” I ask, taken aback.
“You and your coughing friend down there.”
Twig looks at me with watery eyes. It’s obvious he’s just as confused as I am. Why in the world does Opal Bogaard care what either of us think?
“I’ve been waiting for you to talk about it on your podcast,” she says, and I could not be more gobsmacked.
“You listen to our podcast?” I ask.
“My great grandson here told me all about it.”
Beside her, Sterling’s pale face turns beet red.
“Ignatius doesn’t take me out enough. There’s not much to do when you’re my age. So I gave it a thorough listen and I’d like to know what you think.”
The whole table has gone quiet.
Isabel looks scandalized.
Cosette, appalled.
Mr. Calloway, entertained.
Ignatius, as red in the face as his son.
And Opal, a naughty little toddler with a gleam in her eye.
For a brief moment, I imagine telling her the truth. Of course it’s connected. Simon and his family were sucked into an alternate dimension by a curse, where his family was killed by the same monster who is taking my classmates. Instead, I clear my throat and tell her I don’t know.
She looks disappointed.
“Come now,” Mayor Ridley barks. “There is no connection whatsoever. It’s all just one unfortunate coincidence.”
“Au contraire,” Rafe whispers in my ear.
“There’s not even a connection between the current disappearances,” Mayor Ridley continues.
“Those boys are almost certainly dead. Which is a great tragedy, but completely unrelated to the girls. There’s no evidence to suggest the girls are even connected.
Lola Hayes is a troubled young lady. This wouldn’t be the first time she’s run away, and yet her mother is threatening lawsuits left and right.
You’re a lawyer, Mrs. Kapoor. What do you make of all the trouble this woman is causing? Does she have a leg to stand on?”
“I practice finance,” Mrs. Kapoor says. “And please, call me Priya.”
“Still though,” Ridley mutters. “Talking to every media outlet who will listen. She seems to care more about a payout than her daughter’s wellbeing.”
Mrs. Ridley squeezes her husband’s arm with a tight smile, cutting him off before he can continue. “It’s an awful situation for everyone involved. Let’s hope it’s resolved soon.”
Fire crackles in the fireplace.
Dad tugs at his tie.
Isabel sits with flared nostrils.
Opal takes a swig from her goblet and smacks her lips.
“How about this beef, ay?” Mr. Calloway asks.
It isn’t the smoothest transition.
But everyone jumps on it.
The food is truly delicious.
We’re all so full, we can’t eat another bite.
It’s a good thing we’re not having dessert until later.
All the while, Isabel—tight-lipped and pale—does her best to recover. “I was thinking we could retire to the music room for some entertainment. Jude plays the piano beautifully.”
All eyes turn to the piano player.
It’s obvious by his expression that she’s put him on the spot.
“I was hoping you could play us a Christmas piece or two.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Mrs. Calloway adds. “Kate has a very nice singing voice. Maybe she could—”
“I’m not singing, Mom,” Kate says, cutting her mother off before she can finish.
Surprisingly, Jude is more compliant.
He agrees to play.
I really wish he wouldn’t.
Because Isabel is wrong.
Jude doesn’t play beautifully.
He plays exquisitely.
And I’m not sure my heart can handle it.