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Max carefully removes my constricting fingers, moves me a bit, and rubs his arms vigorously. Then he nudges me with his elbow.
“Okay?” He strokes my hair gently. With a chuckle, he makes everything worse. “You aren’t planning to lose a shoe again, are you?”
Heat creeps into my face, displacing feelings of nausea with the beginnings of acute embarrassment.
“Cress, you’re bright red.” Meggy makes this innocent, I hope, observation. Or did Max regale his family with our encounter at Everest last November? I wouldn’t put it past him, although no one mentioned it when they visited at Christmas.
Deep crinkles form around his eyes; Max is laughing softly.
“Did you…?” My glare is fire arrows aimed at his heart.
A circle of Grants surrounds me. Their faces tell me they don’t know the story. And now I’m going to have to tell it. An army of staff, bearing towels and a large basket, approach us. We take the proffered linens gratefully and try to dry off the worst of the water from our hair and faces. Not much we can do about our clothes and shoes. As we pass through to the dining room, we toss the towels into the capacious basket.
“I must look a fright,” Meggy moans.
“Not important,” Viktoria chides, looking around at the crowd.
The place is full, not surprising for a Friday night—uh, Saturday morning. Somehow, the Grant magic works. A smartly dressed woman joins us. “Les, glad we could find a table.” Her arms full of what looks like chef’s whites, she gives a dry chuckle. “I have some dry things for you to wear, and we’ll pop your clothes in our industrial dryer.”
She hands out the garments and shows us where we can change. I put on the jacket and pants, which are too big, and drop my sodden outfit into the provided basket. I roll up the sleeves and the pant legs and trail into the corridor. Max smirks when he sees me.
Les’ friend leads us to a an eight-seat table in front of the windows I want to avoid. Stifling a yawn, I sit with my back to the view. The sound of water sluicing down the windows in competition with the electro music sets up a thrumming in my chest. I grab Max’s hand, hoping his touch will calm my racing heart.
Max twists my ponytail in one fist. Good luck if he thinks he can wring out more water. “La mia stellina, it’s okay. The windows are very sturdy. Nothing is going to happen.”
“What if another bomb goes off?”
Max grips my hand tightly as he holds my gaze, but he is silent.
A waiter comes over, clocks my panicked expression, and offers more reassurance. “Lots of people are nervous about the heights. We had a party in a few days ago.” He pauses for effect. “Well, let’s say two of them got so het up that the entire party left.” He shakes his head. “We offered to reseat them farther from the windows, but…”
He hands around a drinks menu. “If you want to admire the lights, make sure you focus straight ahead, and you’ll be capital.” His smile is reassuring.
“I’ll take a photo if you like. On the terrace. Or the whole family in front of the windows. Very popular.” He glances out the windows where the rain is still hammering against the panes. “If it clears out by sunrise, you can get a great photo.”
He pauses, watching as we peruse the offerings. “Know what you’d like?”
Max wants cuppa and I agree to share a pot. My stomach is too acidic to allow for coffee right now. And alcohol doesn’t appeal. I’m sure a few sips would knock me out completely. The rest of the group choose various special cocktails from the menu. The thought threatens to roil my stomach all over again.
An unwelcome voice pierces through the wall of sound. “So, we meet again.”
Allan Mason’s sibilant tones run through me like an icy wave on Lake Michigan. He looks the same as at the restaurant earlier. But unlike us, he is not wet. Either he had an enormous umbrella or shuttled around by car from wherever he’s been.
Max looks up from the food menu, his face marred by a deep frown. “What are you doing here, Allan?”
“How did you find us?” Ian snarls.
“I stopped at the site and spoke to two officers. One of them remembered you and heard you planning to come to Duck and Waffle. Had a taste for waffles myself, so here I am.”
“Well, you can push off again,” Ian growls.
A waiter approaches with another chair. Max goes to wave him away, but I grab his arm.
“What are you doing?” Max hisses.
“Mr. Mason.” My voice is tight but steady. “I assume you have some news for us.”
Allan sits down and faces us, lips pursed. “Not why I’m here.”
