“That’s vintage Fabergé,” Trystan admits almost sourly.
“It’s so beautiful, she’s so beautiful,” I whisper, my words drawn out on a breath so soft and secret.
“The clip, yes, the wearer, well, let Mason introduce you. Then you can decide.” The corner of his lips curl. Is that… derision? The womanisincredibly beautiful. My internet searching has revealed she is Alice Catherine Mercer, nee Quince. She’s fifty-nine years old, mother of Mitchel, Monica, and Mason Mercer, wife of Michael, the man whose desk I thought I would be bent over. Presently, his cold eyes stare back at me from the mirror’s reflection, twin jellybeans of licorice and aniseed. Eerie and revolting.
A melodic laugh rings out over the entire set when anassistant says something for Alice’s ears only, and she beams at him in return. An older couple sits in the center of the plush, claret-red sofa, talking to another woman and young girl who looks to be around five years old. The child clings to the leg of the standing woman, burying her short head of pixie-cut hair into the leg of her chic, cigarette pants in the most stunning deep bronze color.
“That’s Marin and Magnus on the couch, talking to Monica, Mason’s sister, and the little girl is Ava,” Trystan explains from over my shoulder. “Frazer and Ramsey will be here somewhere; that’s Monica’s husband and son.”
As if on cue, a man strolls in with a toddler in his arms. The cherubic boy must be around a year old, wriggling to escape his father’s clutches and explore a set full of gleam and shine. He’s just spotted the train set circumnavigating the base of the tree, peeking out from between the boxes and bows. He wants that train.
One by one, the Mercer family float over to take up positions around the older couple on the couch. Their expensive cashmere knits look out of place on an early September day, but the illusion of a snowcapped wonderland just waiting to be explored beyond the windows adds to the homely feel. Festive fakery at its finest.
“If you’re fine here for a moment, I’m just going to run up to print and grab a report I’ll need for tomorrow,” Trys says, nodding to the burly security guard standing only feet away. “Don’t move from here unless directed to by a Mercer, or these two brutes if the place catches on fire. Otherwise, I’ll be back in a moment.”
I watch with rapt fascination as a photographer ducks behind an expensive camera mounted on a tripod. An assistant surveys each image on a laptop as they are taken, one after the other. Tones of lighting are changed with the press of a remote,and an entire wardrobe change is called for about sixty photos later.
As Alice Mercer dashes off to a dressing room, Monica, Ava and her boys make their way to a catering table to the side of the shoot where I’ve been lurking. I’d snared a few grapes when I thought no one was looking.
“How are the grapes?” Well, someone was looking.
“Very good. Sweet but not overpowering,” I reply to Monica’s husband. He’s busy selecting pieces of fruit for his children to snack on when his wife saunters over to join them.
“Oh, hello,” she beams. “I’m Nic Mercer-Klein. This is my family: Frazer, Ava, and Ramsey. I don’t believe we’ve met?”
“Hello. I work for Mason as an assistant. My name is Sabrina; most people call me Bri.”
“Ah,” she beams. “I shortened Monica to Nic, so it wasn’t as pretentious. I’m assuming you did the same?”
Before I can answer, Frazer jumps in. “Just because you hate the connotations of those M names, Sabrina might adore her name. Your assumption could be way off base. Or she might have a penchant for soft cheese?”
“If she loved Sabrina, wouldn’t she request everyone call her that?”
“I’m happy with either,” I add breezily, watching as the children inhale little triangles of watermelon and the largest blueberries I’ve ever seen. One rolls out of the fingers of the little girl and lands near the pointed toe of my Louboutin heels.
“Uh oh,” she says in the sweetest voice.
Bending to pick it up, I deposit it into the concealed trash and move the entire bowl closer to her. Her tiny smile is all the thanks I need.
“Ah, you have a friend for life now, Bri,” Frazer says with a chuckle. “Miss Ava would eat her entire body weight in berries if she could. Isn’t that right, princess?” The little girlsqueals in delight as her father tickles her. It’s the sound of unbridled joy.
Mason throws off the Christmas sweater, opting to pick up the tie I’m still holding and reclaim his corporate uniform.
“Cool your jets there, bro. I doubt she’s finished with you yet.”
“Well, some of us have jobs and work that won’t do itself. She can add me digitally later if she is so inclined. Nic, have you met my new EPA, Sabrina?”
“Bri? Yes, we have. She’s lovely. Are you going to introduce her to the rest of the family?” The tone is playful, with a bullish curve.
“Fuck no,” Mason snaps, pinching the knot on his tie as he wrestles it into place. There’s something sinfully sexy about watching a man dress. For me, it eclipses the art of undressing in most situations. The adornment of clothing over a honed physique to complete the polish. I notice the little girl looking up as the adults speak. Mason has paid her no mind for the entire shoot, other than to lean over and pass her a small, wrapped gift when instructed to by the photographer, only to reclaim the gift and repeat the process. Instinctively, I bend down to meet her eye level and ask her what she wants for Christmas, even though it’s still months away.
“No more hospital,” she whispers. My heart is cleaving. This tiny slip of a girl, who was born into a family where money is no object and no doubt has a bedroom and playroom overflowing with toys, wants something money can’t buy: health. Overhearing the exchange, Nic places a protective hand over her daughter’s fine strands. “She’s in remission from juvenile myelomonocytic leukemia. This is the first family Christmas shoot she’s been well enough to take part in since she was two.”
Oh, my poor, cleaved heart. She was two when she firstbecame unwell. That’s still a baby. At least Caitlin has some handle on what is happening to her and understands when the doctors discuss treatment and prognosis, no matter how gruesome.
“I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better. Could it be the blueberries?”
“Maybe!” Nic laughs and caresses her daughter’s tiny cheek with her thumb. The adoration and devotion are clear in the mirrored gaze until a shrill voice splits the air in two like a stock whip.
