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8 Miranda
CLAIRE AND I sipped espresso and nibbled on croissants and fruit. The two executive assistants, Liesl and Veronica, were again present as was Mr. St. James. They didn’t talk much. I suspected they were there for other aspects of the gala to which I was not privy to.
As for Mr. St. James, he seemed to be an observer and not as extroverted as William. Perhaps in his youth they were similar, and he’d mellowed with age.
“We appreciate your time this morning,” Claire said, “with Thanksgiving Thursday. I wasn’t sure if your office closed for the week. Many do.”
“I’m sure my partners would have liked closing for the week. Unfortunately, we simply couldn’t. We have a wedding this weekend and three more before Christmas.”
Claire smiled, intrigued so I continued.
“The wedding industry doesn’t slowdown in Southern Californiaever. Even so, I’m kind of a workaholic,” I whispered.
“No shame in that, right, dear?”
“Absolutely! Your dedication and hard work will take you far,” Mr. St. James said.
“Along with her talent.” Claire quieted. I wondered where her thoughts had wandered as she gazed at the harvest arrangement on the table. It was a beautiful arrangement of calla lilies, orange and red roses, burgundy dahlias, and fern.
“Well, I must go. It was a pleasure.” Mr. St. James nodded at me and kissed Claire lightly on the cheek. He was handsome like William. I guessed not quite sixty. He wouldn’t lack interested women if he were available, wearing that black tailored suit and a striking red silk tie with black dots. Up close, I noticed the herringbone print in his white shirt—impressive and easily two hundred dollars.
These were the kind of clients that would help my business grow… explode. The St. James name in my portfolio would be all the advertising I’d need after the gala in February.
“Don’t forget to call Paul… the club this weekend with Natasha,” Claire reminded him.
“Consider it done.” He raised a hand as he exited the conference room.
“Do you play tennis?” Claire asked.
“Not since high school.”
A slight arch of her brow put me on edge. Did I just lose a couple of points? Was she measuring me up? Up to what? William’s wife?
A fog of tension drifted into the room. My stomach coiled into a ball of nerves at the memory of William interrupting the meeting last week, looking gorgeous and happy. It put a dreadful ache in my chest.
Married. I’d made myself sick over the weekend wondering if I’d have to face him today. Fear had swallowed me whole, worrying he might be angry with me for canceling dinner.
Not that he had a choice in the matter. I would never bethe other woman.
Claire cleared her throat, glancing my way. It was more than a little awkward. Did her secretary tell her about the call? And dinner with her married son?
Was she going to confront me now that her husband had left?
“Let’s begin,” Claire announced. Sweet relief. “I spoke to Eva last night,” she whispered, head down and pulling up the documents on her iPad I’d emailed last night. I held my breath waiting for her to continue. Eva was her personal assistant, whom I hadn’t met in person, only spoke to on the phone. “You look to be feeling better.”
Speechless, I flicked my gaze at the assistants. They appeared oblivious on their phones.
“I am,” I replied, my tone light as if nothing scandalous almost happened with her son.
The conference room’s air thickened, and the temperature rose as my stomach percolated like a geyser—the first sign I may be bolting to the bathroom at any moment.
“I’m glad to hear it. Eva told me you called to cancel dinner with Mr. St. James.” She placed her hand gently on mine. Every muscle in my body turned to stone.
“Oh?”
“Will is never referred to as Mr. St. James. He’s just Will St. James.” She patted my hand.
Rapidly, I tried to decipher her words, but my overheated body must have melted my brain. “He… he doesn’t go by Mr. St. James?” I felt like I was missing something pertinent, but I was so flustered I could hardly think.
