Page 116 of Taking Turns

“You don’t have any,” he says, like this explains everything. “How could a woman with your breeding not have linen napkins? How can I possibly write you a Christmas Eve Eve message on a paper towel?”

Oh, shit. He’s really trying to make me happy tonight. A message on a napkin. I take a moment to think about his other messages so far. The first one had his number on it. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you, it said. And the poem on the second one. The one about going into the dark without a light.

“What else do people do on Christmas Eve Eve?” I ask.

“Not much. My big plans are for tomorrow. We have a party to go to, Chella.”

“Oh, now your name is Bric.”

“Not that kind of party,” he says, shooting me a sidelong look. “The fun kind. At the Club.”

“Hmmm,” I say, thinking that over. “Saturday night at the Club sounds dangerous.”

“I’m not telling you anything else. It’s a surprise.”

“And Bric and Quin know about this?”

“They do,” he says.

“And they’re OK with me being there for a Saturday night party?”

He winks at me. “You’re a fun girl, Marcella. Why wouldn’t they be OK with it?”

“Hmm,” I say again. “Now you’ve got me curious. What kind of fun times are we talking about?”

“No clues,” he says. “It’s a surprise.” He grabs a bottle of champagne from the counter and pops the cork, then fills two glasses. He hands me one and raises his—seemingly at a loss for words.

“What should we toast to?” I ask to break the silence. He’s just staring at me with a look I can’t describe. Thoughtful? Confused? I’m not sure.

“To us,” he says. “We should toast to us.”

“You know, this relationship I have with you is coming dangerously close to dating.”

“Aren’t we dating?” he asks.

“Are we dating?” My eyebrows shoot up my forehead.

“We’re living together.”

“Are we?”

We both laugh.

“I guess it’s a little confusing, isn’t it?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Is it?”

“You’re full of questions tonight, Marcella.”

“You’re full of surprises, Smith.”

He takes my arm and leads me over to the table, setting both our glasses down before pulling out my chair. “The food’s getting cold.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I say, taking my seat and letting him push in my chair. “You have nice manners, Mr. Baldwin.”

“Don’t look at your napkin yet. Let me sit first. So I can enjoy it.” He goes back for the casserole dish and places it on the table, then serves me a heaping spoonful.

I really don’t know what to make of this version of Smith Baldwin.