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Mayor Romney being first and foremost on that list. And as he and his wife walk through the front door, for the first time tonight, I’m actually grateful for this monstrosity of a party.
When all the guests have finally arrived, we enter the ballroom to mingle. It’s a beautiful June night, and the French doors are flung wide to let in the fresh summer air, allowing the dance floor to expand onto the terrace.
People have already started to eat, grazing from the rather impressive buffet tables full of finger foods and bite-sized treats. Tia takes it all in quietly, her delicate fingers resting lightly in the crook of my elbow as we follow our parents into the room.
“Don Guerra, Signora, would you care to join me? I was hoping to introduce you to my nephew from New York,” my father suggests, already taking advantage of the alliance my marriage will form. “I think you might find him a rather interesting acquaintance.”
“Of course,” Tia’s father agrees, his eyes shifting to her momentarily.
She gives him a measured smile, then her eyes shift to me.
“Would you like something to drink?” I suggest, gesturing to the bar as flashes from the night I met her unexpectedly fill my mind.
“I’ll take a water, thank you,” Tia says, her voice sickly sweet as she rests her hand subtly across her abdomen.
It’s slight, but the message is there. Just a hint of undercurrent that suggests my insensitivity to her condition—one that is supposed to be kept secret until after the wedding. I clench my teeth, the tendon in my jaw popping as I note the hidden threat—that she could reveal her secret at any moment, should she be so inclined. But I can’t call it out for what it is.
“Of course,” I agree with a forced smile.
We head to the bar and collect our drinks—ice water for Tia and a stiff whiskey for me. I suspect I’m going to need it before this night is over.
Then, we start to make our way around the room. Fulfilling my obligation to spend the event at her side, I introduce Tia to my family’s acquaintances, several she met at the party she crashed. On rare occasion, she introduces me to someone from her side of the aisle. But everyone we engage with, she charms with demure smiles and witty conversation.
She’s in her element now.
I wonder if, at the party that night, she was too nervous to maintain her composure. Or perhaps she was so nervous her parents would find out that she came across as shy and unprepared. But tonight, she’s captivating, her charisma winning over everyone she sees.
“Would you like to take a break and have a bite to eat?” I suggest after over an hour of entertaining our guests.
“I’m starving,” Tia confesses, her eyes lighting at the suggestion. “After all, I’m eating for two now.”
Despite the fact that she lowered her voice, her words have their desired effect as my stomach drops and I cast a sidelong glance to make sure no one is near enough to have heard.
“You’ll hold your tongue if you know what’s good for you,” I warn, my voice even lower as I barely move my lips.
“Of course,” she says, her voice breathy with dismay. “How careless of me.” But the slight curve to her lips is enough to tell me she’s enjoying her small victory.
Still, I’m determined not to let her get under my skin. Even if she’s good at it. In truth, I was starting to get a bit baffled by her lack of spiteful comments—like the one she opened with at the start of the night.
I expected her to be more challenging. But seeing that smile now, the subtlest of celebrations after getting a rise out of me, sparks my suspicion. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head, and though I have no idea what she’s thinking, I suspect she’s not walking into this arrangement as willing and accepting as she pretends to be.
We gather our plates, Tia collecting an impressive mountain of food on hers, before heading toward the tables set up off to the side of the dance floor. And to my delight, I spot Mayor Romney and his wife occupying one.
Lightly gripping Tia’s elbow, I steer her in their direction. She follows willingly, her eyes cast up to study my face for the briefest of moments before landing on the table where we’re heading.
“Are these seats taken?” I ask, adopting my most charming tone as I set my food on the table to pull out the chair next to Mayor Romney so Tia can sit.
“No, by all means,” he says, his gesture welcoming, though his tone is somewhat stiff.
The sharp-witted mayor I’ve been trying to put in my back pocket for over a year now has proven particularly challenging to win over. And after more failed attempts than I would like to admit, I’m starting to wonder if my time might not be better spent on other high-ranking officials.
But Romney has the position—and the reputation—to open many more doors for me. So, though I can tell his guard is up, I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet.
“Thank you.” Tia settles gratefully into her chair, her smile sincere as she turns it on the couple next to her, who both look to be in their forties.
Mayor Romney has a considerable belly, the effects of a lifetime spent in meetings and sitting behind desks. His wife, on the other hand, is petite with just a hint of gray at her temples, her hair pulled up into a simple French roll.
“Tia, I believe I had the honor of introducing you to Mayor Romney and his wife at the beginning of the night,” I say in an effort to hold their attention.
