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Grace glanced over at Smith, who was leaning up against the doorjamb across the room. He was wearing all black, though not a suit, and in the dim light, his eyes seemed especially dark.
She offered Jack a smile. "You just don't know him."
"And I'm not in a big rush to. As dinner companions go, that guy makes a cold draft seem damn appealing."
"You know, I’m really looking forward to seeing Blair tomorrow," she said, eager to stop talking about Smith. "Tell me, when are you two tying the knot?"
Jack laughed and took a drink from his bourbon. "Changing the subject. Good defensive maneuver and a particularly well-chosen topic, too. Shall we talk about the weather?"
Grace laughed. "You are going to ask her, aren't you?"
Her friend's eyes narrowed as he looked down into his drink, swirling it casually. "I’ll get around to it at some point. Who knows? Maybe even sooner rather than later."
"What are you waiting for? "
An elegant shrug was followed by a wicked smile. "The planets need to be properly aligned. My moon needs to be ascending, but for the past thirty years or so, it's been sinking fast. Or maybe it's the other way around."
"She's a lovely woman."
"I know. And she puts up with me which makes her a saint." Jack looked up. "Just don't ply me with the whole marriage is fabulous routine. My mother's been using that line a lot lately and it's losing its punch."
Grace raised her glass to her lips and remained silent, thinking that would be the last thing she'd tell anybody.
When Marta announced dinner was served, Jack raised his elbow and she took his arm. As they walked through to the dinning room, she felt Smith's eyes boring into her back. She had to fight the urge to wheel around and tell him his intensity was making her nervous. She was in her own home, among friends, for heaven's sake. It wasn't like Hugh Blankenbaker was going to rush at her with his salad fork or something.
Although, as soon as they sat down, she had other things to worry about.
In the middle of the soup course, her mother's voice cut through the conversation like a scythe. "Now tell me, Mr. Smith, what do you do?"
Everyone stopped talking and all eyes went to John, except for Grace's. She looked down at her plate, wondering if there was a way to deflect her mother's attention.
She could always bring up her impending divorce, she thought wryly.
"I'm in the service industry," John said, sounding bored.
"What kind of service do you offer?"
Grace answered before he could. "He helps with organizational development. I asked him to come to the Foundation and work on team building after Father's death."
Carolina's eyes shifted down the table and held her daughter's for a long moment. "Well, if you must. Although I still can't understand why you don't let Mr. Lamont run things. Your father had the highest confidence in him."
Maybe so, Grace felt like tossing back, but he didn't leave the guy in charge, did he?
Instead, she smiled graciously around tight lips. "Thank you again for the suggestion."
As the conversation surged again, Grace met Smith's eyes across the table.
Jack nudged her arm. "So?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What are you auctioning off for the Gala this year?"
Before she could answer him privately, the others at the table quieted down again and looked her way. She pinned a smile on her face and did a little PR dance.
"We've relocated the event this year. We're having it in the atrium of the Hall Building instead of at the Plaza. It's going to be spectacular in that space, assuming we can get the acoustics right."
Mr. Blankenbaker leaned forward while pushing his glasses higher onto his little nose. "What is the auction piece?"
"We're trying to decide," she answered.
And it's a bitch of a choice. Between nothing and nada.
"Would you be interested in Copley's portrait of Nathaniel Walker?"
Grace slowly lowered her spoon to her plate, sure she'd heard him wrong. "Excuse me?"
"John Singleton Copley's painting of Nathaniel Walker. It was done in 1775, I believe. Right before the battle of Concord in Massachusetts, wherein Walker was captured by the British and spirited away to Fort Sagamore. Surely you recall the history.''
"Of course, I do. And the Foundation would absolutely be interested in the painting."
Mr. Blankenbaker nodded to Jack. "Your ancestor has been hanging over our fireplace for a rather long time. My wife purchased it from your father."
There was a subtle disapproval in the tone, as if the man couldn't fathom why such a family treasure would have fallen out of a Walker's hands.
"I remember when he sold it," Jack muttered, obviously sharing Blankenbaker's sentiment.
