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ChapterTwenty-Five
Emelia
I didn’t come here expecting to find Professor Barclay, but I still hoped he’d be in attendance. My true intent was to see Alexander, and my conscience clings to that. He called me earlier out of the blue, and I was elated. After how we left things at his dinner party, I wasn’t expecting to ever hear from him again.
He sounded remorseful straight away.
“I should have called sooner. I just needed some time to clear my head and get a handle on everything that was said.”
“No,I’msorry. I could have reached out too…I just figured it’d be better to give everyone time to cool off.”
“Of course. Well, obviously, I should apologize for Emmett—”
“No. Please don’t. Emmett is…” I shook my head. “He’s responsible for his own actions. I won’t let him ruin whatever fledgling friendship you and I were starting to develop…that is, if you’re still even interested in that. I know I lied—”
“Emelia, come on. That doesn’t matter to me. Our sibling status was never all that clear to begin with. What does it matter if Frédéric isn’t your father? Hell, it’s probably for the better. Now you’re less likely to inherit his dictatorial personality. Consider yourself lucky.”
I smiled despite the seriousness of the conversation.
“In spite of everything, my father was still married to your mother for a few years. For a brief time, we were stepsiblings if nothing else. How their marriage ended…well, that’s nothing new for Frédéric. He seems to burn bridges so easily. I don’t know the circumstances of your mother’s affair, but let’s just say I don’t really blame her for seeking affection wherever she could find it. Frédéric is a cold man. He’s been that way for as long as I can remember. If you and Emmett ever find yourselves on speaking terms, he’ll corroborate that.”
“Right.”
There was a lull, and then I blurted out, “So what now?”
He chuckled. “Well obviously I’d like you and Emmett to sit down together and talk, but regardless of that, I’d like to proceed as you and I had previously planned. You include me in your life, and I’ll do the same. I’m having people over tonight. Nothing like that dinner from hell—this is more of a party.”
“Aren’t you too old for parties?”
He cursed in French. “Don’t depress me, Emelia. Is 30 that old?”
“Ancient,” I drawled.
He laughed. “People will start to arrive around nine, but come whenever. I’d like to see you.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Emelia…”
“Okay!”
I did come, but it was closer to ten when I arrived. I didn’t want it to be like last time, when I found myself alone in this colosseum of an apartment. But when I got here, it wasn’t the absence of people I had to worry about. I wandered through packed rooms for ten minutes and still didn’t find Alexander. I was combing over his apartment, trying to avoid stumbling in on something I shouldn’t—with a crowd this size, you never know—and that’s when I spotted Professor Barclay in the sitting room.
From my vantage point out in the hall, I studied him for a length of time I’m not usually afforded. A well-dressed man like him, reclined with his drink in hand—I could have held up a camera, snapped a photo of his domineering profile, and sold it to any magazine in the world. His legs were stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles as he listened to his friends chat with a soft smile playing on his full lips. It struck me because of how rare it is to see lightness in him. He’s a man disposed to pensiveness, whether due to his personality or just the stress of his job, or maybe even just…me.
I didn’t have the courage to go into the sitting room, partly because of the angry email I fired off yesterday and partly because of the fact that he was sitting next to Emmett. Though I know Alexander would like me to make up with his brother, that’s not a tree I’m barking up tonight.
Even without me going into the sitting room, Professor Barclay must have seen me because he followed me into the kitchen and issued his decree.
I don’t know where he leads me now, but it’s away from the crowd.
I turn another corner and lose sight of him for a second. A door on the right has been left slightly ajar, and I push it open and find myself at the threshold of an elaborate wine room. The floor is paved with bricks and the walls are lined with tall racks. The only overhead lighting comes from the soft glow of a pendant lantern. A long aisle curves to the right, affording ample storage for lots and lots of wine.
Professor Barclay is there, searching among the bottles. He doesn’t look over or acknowledge me as I step inside the room and shut the door.
There’s enough wine here to last someone a lifetime and then some, enough to make a sommelier weep. I stand frozen as Professor Barclay peruses the racks. He’s in no rush, but that’s part of the game. By the time he chooses a dusty bottle with dried red wax dripping down its neck, I’ve grown more than a little restless.
“This is from the Rhône Valley,” he says, his voice slightly echoed in the room. “A French red seems apropos.”
