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“Maybe it’s just the way you look in that dress, maybe it’s just the way your taste lingers on my lips.”
I downed the champagne. This man was going to be the death of me.
We circled the tables full of articles up for the silent auction and we debated on the idea of what made art good or bad. We didn’t decide on anything because we were too engrossed in our wine and dodging people Trask knew. We were unsuccessful a handful of times. Introductions were made, and people nodded at me when Trask introduced me and then dove headfirst into a conversation with Trask about some new project, internship, job offer, new law, really anything. I was left to smile dumbly and wait for Trask to break free of them.
“You’re Mr. Popular,” I said, taking the opportunity to hold onto his thick bicep. Why had I not noticed just how strong he really was?
Trask shrugged. “Honestly? My dad is the popular one. Big lawyers and friends in all the right places. People want me to work with them if only for a closer connection to my dad and his accounts.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“It is what it is, I’m used to it. It’ll give me a decent foothold into some business even though I didn’t go into law, much to my poor mother’s disappointment.”
“Why did she want you to go into law?” I couldn’t help but scrunch up my nose. The idea of Trask talking in a courtroom, buried by documents, was not as fun as seeing Trask’s hands covered in ink and hunched over a table making lines and notes on a giant paper. Every time I saw a bridge I thought of him.
“It’s what my dad does, and she’ll always see me as a replica of my dad, someone to take over the office, all that jazz. But they see my success with architecture and I am sure my dad has a million ways to merge our two interests.”
“Do you want that?”
He took a glass of wine and steered us back to the far end of the room before answering with a soft, “I don’t know.”
I nodded, taking a glass as well. “There are a lot of things I don’t know too.” I wanted to continue, but something caught my eye on one of the tables. It wasn’t a piece of abstract art selling for twenty thousand dollars, no this was familiar. I clasped Trask’s hand in mine and drug him along. “Oh my god, it’s the first edition.
The book had a glass case over it, but the info card next to it confirmed my suspicions. “It’s the first edition, signed. Signed?” I gulped air. “It’s a first edition copy ofThe Wind and The Willows!”
Trask stared at me like I grew an extra nose. “And?”
“And? It is only the most delightful book ever. First published in 1908 with amazing illustrations and each year only improved in that department. Oh, come on? Frog and Toad? And Mole?” He only gave me a blank face. “Oh, my goodness, you are missing out! This was my childhood.” The last word caught in my throat. Shit.
“Eliza?” Trask’s fingers brushed the side of my neck. “What about it?”
Of course, he knew there was more. “I just really like it.”
“Don’t lie.”
What was it about this man that made me want to follow every one of his commands? He wasn’t domineering, but he was a solid thing, so sure of himself and what he was doing in life and I wanted to cling to that. It was like he was a ship in the sea and I could climb up with him and be free of the chaos. So, I chose to be honest. “It was the only book we had growing up. Not a first edition or anything like that. But my mom found it on a park bench and gave it to me. I couldn’t read but she’d sometimes read it to me. We read it so much I could probably recite the whole thing right now. It just makes me think back to the time growing up when things were normal. Things were good.”
Trask nodded and kissed my neck, sending shivers down my spine. “I don’t have specific memories like that, just a bunch of good occasionally tainted with my dad’s meetings or my mom’s crying. Should I feel guilty for that? And what happened to the book? Please don’t tell me it burned in a house fire.”
“Why would you ever feel guilty for having a good life? That’s like me telling you that you can’t be happy because other people have it better. And when my mom split, the book went with her. Not sure why she took it. I like to think she wanted it for the same reason I wanted it.”
He kissed me, a quick kiss, but it felt nice, a little piece of power I could take with me. His kiss gave me confidence. Good grief, I was in deep with this man.
He led me over to this giant wall filled with wine, each bottle had a number. “This,” Trask explained, “is the wine wall. You pay twenty-five bucks and pick a bottle. The bottle could be worth anywhere from fifteen dollars to four hundred dollars. Most of these were donated by local wineries and such. So, my lucky lady, pick a number.” He had already slid cash over to the attendant and she waited for my selection.
I scanned the bottles. They were already wrapped in bags, not that I would recognize any of the labels. “Twenty-three,” I said.
The woman reached up and pulled the bottle down, looking at Trask, who answered her questioning eyes, “I’ll pick it up at the end of the evening. Trask Davis,” he said to the attendant.
I looked at Trask and he answered my own questions. “There is a release form at the end so you can pay for your silent auction or auction winning at the end. We’ll pick it up then.”
I nodded and jumped when music began to play from the dining room. We walked back in and began walking through the maze of tables, chairs, and people, to find our seats. We hadn’t seen Trask’s parents yet and it was hard to determine if it was he or I who was more relieved by this. No getting out of it now.
Trask pulled my chair out for me and I sat. Across from me was a woman in an elegant red dress with her hair in a tight French twist. I could smell her perfume from across the table and her earrings were so large they looked nearly painful hanging from her lobes.
“Eliza! So good to see you,” she said. She glanced at the man at her side. It was as if Trask aged thirty years. It was a look into the future. “Honey, you remember Trask’s little friend, Eliza?”
Trask took the seat next to his father and squeezed my hand. “Yes, Mom. Eliza, this is my mother Faye and my father Randy.” It was like he made a big point to show that they hadn’t actually introduced themselves the one and only time we ran into each other in their kitchen.
