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Crammed in next to Erik’s bulk, Amy, like Cress, is angular. She shed her black motorcycle jacket when they arrived and her tank top shows off toned arms and sloping shoulders.
Washing down bruschetta with a mouthful of fizzy wine, Amy gurgles, swallowing hastily. “This is an amazing house, Max. Your home office setup must be state-of-the-art. What do you do with all this space?” She sounds breathless with anticipation.
I stiffen. Her avid curiosity unsettles me. “We’ll give you the shilling tour after dinner.” No one goes into my office. Not Arlette. Not even Cress. Not because it’s state-of-the-art but because that’s where I wired in the ethernet connection. Even though VPN is usually secure enough, occasionally I need a more secure connection.
“Tell us about trip.” Erik sounds wistful. “I know you go to London, Max. But why is so important you go for whole month when we have big rollout coming up?”
Micki breaks in, waving her hand like she’s waiting to be called on. “Cress is nominated for a writing award.”
“You don’t need me in Chicago for that.” I wave away Erik’s doubtful expression. “I haven’t had a holiday in years. My family is having a seventy-eighth birthday bash for my dad and I want to be with Cress for the award ceremony and her conference in Venice. It’s not like I’m going to Timbuktu. I’ll be reachable. Besides, the upgrade is Jarvis’ baby.”
“Yeah, you’re totally expendable.” Jarvis winks. “So far, everything is right on target for the release.”
I walk into the kitchen, pick up the bowl of mousse and the toast points, then call into the lounge. “Dinner is served. Bring in your glasses if you haven’t finished.”
ChapterSeven
Cress
I look around the table. Except for Micki, everyone else is one of Max’s work colleagues. People I don’t know well, but need to know better if Max and I stay together. With a sigh, I spread some mousse on a piece of toast.
“We heard your building went condo, Amy.” JL pointedly moves the conversation in a new direction. “What are you doing with your stuff when you move out? Or have you already found something else?“
Amy’s lips pucker like she’s been sucking a lemon. She waves her fork around with a dismissive flip. “I don’t have much and I rented the furniture, anyway. Footloose and fancy free.” Tossing her head, she goes on proudly. “I passed the hundred things minimalist challenge. I only have about fifty.”
My eyebrows shoot up incredulously. “Seriously? How do you do that?“
Amy shrugs. “I mostly don’t eat at home and don’t need a lot of clothes. And, I’m a digital girl and access movies, music, and all that crap on my laptop. I work a lot too.”
“Perfect that Erik has offered to let you stay with him.” A mischievous smile plays around Jarvis’ lips. Then he goes back to shoveling in Yorkshire pudding and roasted vegetables.
Max frowns at Erik. “You didn’t volunteer that information when we spoke.”
The big Russian smirks and runs his fingers through his beard. “Nice for me.”
After he clears away the mousse, Max brings in the wine. He has decanted two bottles. Now he pours a small amount into his wineglass, sniffs and swirls, tastes it, then moves around the table, pouring a taste for each of us. There is just enough to go around.
I admire the way the deep ruby color reflects on the white tablecloth. Brunello is my favorite wine and Max tells me this vintage is extraordinary. Cinnamon and licorice flavors blend with herb notes of rosemary and thyme, among others. Black and red fruit tastes explode in my mouth with my first sip. Leather, tobacco, and chocolate linger on my tongue.
“It’s a Soldera Brunello di Montalcino Riserva 1990.” Max sniffs, swirls, sniffs again, then tastes. “Lovely, silky tannins, layered fruit flavors of currents and cherry, hints of spice and chocolate.” He has a bit more. “Fortunately, you can cellar a Brunello for decades—sometimes as long as a century.”
JL whistles. We all take a taste and appreciative murmurs rise around the table.
Max removes the now-empty decanter and brings in the roast. Then he displays the Regency silver carving set his parents gave him as a housewarming present when he moved to Chicago in its beautiful mahogany presentation case. Green felt at the bottom, with white silk on the top. Max loves it. The handles have Paul Storr hallmarks and a lovely shell pattern on the ends. He flourishes the carving knife and fork.
“Wow. That set is impressive.” Micki has a gleam in her eye. “Spill the story, Max.”
He shrugs. “One of my ancestors, Frederick Grant, bought it in London in 1822 as a wedding present for his future bride. Storr was the premier silversmith in London in the first half of the nineteenth century. His pieces were popular with the royal family and the aristocracy. That Frederick bought this set and had a special box made shows Storr’s reputation spread outside London. Unfortunately, his intended died before their wedding, but the set stayed in the family.”
“Why are you using if is unlucky?” Erik frowns.
“My dad said Frederick thought of selling it, but thrifty Scot that he was, he decided it would be too expensive to replace. We’re not superstitious, and the bride dying before the wedding was the only incident. When Frederick finally married in 1824, he presented the set to his new bride and nothing bad happened.” He takes out the sharpening steel and expertly runs the blade back and forth. “Traditionally, it goes to the first son married. That would be my younger brother, Frank. But my parents bestowed it on me for my twenty-fifth birthday, maybe as a hint that I should find someone and marry. I will present it to my nephew on his wedding day.”
He stabs the fork into the perfectly cooked meat, proceeding to carve beautiful uniform slices, which cascade to the platter in a neat overlapping pattern. The carving takes everyone’s attention as we pass the plates up and down the table. Once the meat is served, the side dishes start around, and the only sound is chewing and slurping, with an occasional piece of silverware clinking against a plate.
* * *
After a quick tour of the house, we’re back in the living room, Max pulls out a bottle of Glen Grant and pours drams for everyone. I sit on the edge of my chaise longue and leaning forward to take a sip of scotch. Metin slides in next to me and lays her fingers on my forearm.
