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 amusedglance 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 likepancettaandharicot vertsand a dessert calledBûche de Noël.
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.
Thatis 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 interestin 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?”
