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“Six years?” Gena’s brows drew together. “You must have been pretty young.”
“I was eighteen,” I said, with an exaggerated that’s-so-not-right grimace. “But I look about the same now as I did when I was eighteen. I lied and told him I was twenty-five.”
“You look the same now as you did when you were eighteen? I hate you,” Gena laughed.
Our dining room is beautiful. A fourteen-person table with a red mahogany top dominated the center, and golden light intensified the warmth from the pale gold paint color. The floor was glossy hardwood that zigzagged in diagonal rows, and the tall, arched windows from the kitchen were echoed in the enormous, rounded picture window that overlooked the sea. The table was set with Herend Rothschild china and Lalique glasses. Neil had picked out a minimalist flower arrangement of three beautiful orange gloriosa in a black porcelain vase, and the lighting in the room was soft, but not dim. Gena helped me slide the dinner plates onto their chargers.
“This house is truly amazing,” Gena said, gazing out at the lawn, softly illuminated below.
“I know. I would never have thought, growing up in a trailer in the U.P., I would ever live in a place like this.” I nodded to the wall. “It’s got an intercom. Wanna call the guys to dinner?”
“Ooh, can I?” Gena put a little hop in her step as she came over. “What do I push?”
“The bar is… Type in zero-one-three, I think. Then, press talk.” I went to her side, in case she needed help, but she operated it like a pro.
“Boys? Oh, boys?” she said, enunciating “boys” as two syllables. “Your lovely women have put dinner on the table.”
Sharing a meal with Ian and Gena was like spending time with old friends. Maybe it was because they actually were Neil’s friends. But it was different than being around Valerie and Rudy. They were more like family to Neil, so they knew way too much about our personal business, and for me, being around them was like being on trial. We had different boundaries with Ian and Gena, and it was a refreshing change.
“So, Sophie. I know you work at a magazine—” Ian began.
Neil cut him off. “Sophie actually founded the magazine, and she’s co-editor-in-chief.”
“My friend Deja is my partner,” I added.
“Ah. Apologies.” He turned to Neil. “And you’re retired, so you’re a boring old arsehole. What about you, Sophie? How do you spend your time, what do you like to do?”
“When I had free time, I liked to smoke pot and watch stupid movies,” I said with a shrug. “And shop.”
“And force me to watch stupid movies, as well,” Neil said with a chuckle.
“What about you guys?” I asked, sitting a little straighter in my seat.
“Well, I am an interior decorator,” Gena said, lazily swinging her hand on her wrist to gesture at herself.
“And I am an architect.” Ian reached for the bottle of wine and poured himself a second glass. “And I dabble in some drawing on the side.”
“He’s downplaying.” Gena rolled her eyes. “He’s a very successful artist.”
“What kind of art?” Neil lifted his arm and rested it along the back of my chair.
“Portraiture, mostly. Figure drawing. Anything that doesn’t require a computer and loads of fucking math.”
“Maybe we could see some of your work sometime?” I suggested. “It would give us an excuse to get together again.”
“Oh, you don’t need an excuse, love. You can come and see us any time.” Ian said with a wink.
The food was fantastic. Julia had really outdone herself. I could have easily eaten myself into a food stupor, if I hadn’t been keeping the other possibilities of the evening in mind.
Everyone else must have been thinking the same thing, because at the end of the meal they all declined my offer of des
sert.
Gena cleared her throat. “So, Sophie and I were talking while you two were off playing your traditionally masculine roles.”
“I assume you were talking about the same thing we were,” Neil said, and though he smiled, the air took on a tense, delicious charge.
My stomach fluttered.
