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“I’d love to hear more about Scholenberg,” Erika remarks. “I haven’t seen Christina in ages. She’s still managing the program, yes?”
“She more runs it like a drill sergeant, but yes,” I reply.
Erika laughs. “Let’s head out to the terrace. It’s so nice out, I thought we’d eat outside.”
We walk through a tastefully decorated living room, leaving Sophia in the soaring entryway to wait for the mysterious Karl.
The terrace is covered by a wooden lattice woven with bright greenery that shades the table and chairs beneath it. It overlooks a broad stretch of grass framed by tall, trimmed hedges that block any neighbors.
Seated at the head of the table is a tall, silver-haired man who must be Hans Beck. He raises his head from the newspaper he was reading when we approach, his gaze flitting between his wife and son, then landing on me. He snaps the paper back into its original fold and tucks it under the place setting.
Beck and Sophia favor their mother in appearance. Their father cuts an intimidating figure, his domineering presence similar to Beck’s, but it’s a rougher one. His face is tough and weathered, and what remains of his original hair color is darker than the rest of his family’s, combed back neatly to emphasize his hewn features.
“Hello.” Hans greets me in a gruff tone.
“Hi, Mr. Beck.” I hold out a hand to shake his. “I’m Saylor Scott.”
“Hans is fine,” he replies, studying me closely.
I shift nervously under his scrutiny. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I’m not easily starstruck or intimidated.
“Your home is beautiful.” I sweep a hand toward the yard like the Becks aren’t aware their back lawn looks like it could be featured on the cover of a gardening magazine.
“Thank you,” Erika says graciously. “Saylor is attending Scholenberg,” she informs her husband.
Something that looks like respect glints in blue eyes the same shade as Beck’s. “Congratulations. That’s a competitive program.”
“Thank you,” I respond. “I’m a competitive person.”
There’s a small twitch of his mouth, and I’m fairly certain it’s as close to smiling as Hans Beck gets. “The best athletes are,” he replies.
I smile.
Sophia walks out onto the terrace, a guy with light brown hair right behind her. He’s handsome in a sloppy way that’s been carefully curated. His T-shirt has the faded logo for a band on it, and gel glints in his hair, suggesting the messy look he’s sporting is purposeful.
Erika greets him first. “Hello, Karl.”
There’s a pause. “Karl,” Hans grunts.
I watch Sophia level Beck with a sharp glance.
“Hi, Karl,” he says.
I look at Karl. He’s already staring at me; in a way more appropriate for a poorly lit bar than a family brunch. “Hey, Karl,” I say. “I’m Saylor. Nice to meet you.”
His eyes widen when he registers my American accent.
“I’m hungry,” Beck says abruptly. “Is the food ready?”
“Yes, it is.” Erika lurches into motion. “Take a seat, everyone.”
Hans sinks back into the same chair he was seated in before. I round the edge of the table to sit on the side facing the house. There are six chairs, but only five place settings. Obviously, my attendance wasn’t planned upon. I start to take the seat without a plate or silverware, but Beck grasps my elbow and pushes me down a spot to the chair that’s already set.
“Take that one,” he instructs.
“Wow, so you can be a gentleman,” I whisper to him as I do as instructed.
Beck smirks as he sits in the chair next to me. “You like when I’m not a gentleman.”
