Chapter 6
The man in the bow tie reached me first.
He wasn't looking at Andre at all. He was looking at my hands. I realized I was gripping my glitter clutch so tight my knuckles had gone white, the beading on my silver gown catching the chandelier light every time my chest rose. He held a small glass of water out toward me, not toward Andre, and kept his voice low enough that the tables behind us wouldn't hear.
"Miss? Water?" he said. "Can I get you anything? You okay?"
I could see it in his eyes. He'd been standing ten feet away when Andre stepped into my space. He'd seen Andre's hand come up. He'd seen me not flinch. Staff notice everything at these events and pretend they don't. This one wasn't pretending anymore.
I started to shake my head, then stopped. My throat was dry. "Water helps," I said. "Thank you."
He handed me the glass with both hands so I wouldn't have to juggle the clutch. His fingers brushed mine. Cold glass. Steady. Behind him, the green bottle with the gold foil was tucked against his forearm the way waiters carry it, white label out, same bottle Andre's mother had been pouring from a minute earlier.
Andre's mother appeared at his elbow like she had been waiting for that exact pause.
"Oh, give that here, sweetheart," she said to the bow-tie man, and her smile snapped on, bright and practiced. She took the bottle from him with a soft, proprietorial tug. Her gold sequins flashed under the warm overhead lights. "That was for the toast. We were just keeping things moving. You know how these birthdays get. Everyone wants a pour before the speech."
She said it lightly, like the bottle had been part of the party all along and not a prop to cover the fact that everyone within twenty feet had stopped talking to watch her son corner his wife.
The bow-tie man hesitated, then let go of the bottle. "Yes, ma'am," he said. He looked at me again. "I'll be right by the service corridor if you need anything."
He stepped back but he didn't go far. He stayed at the edge of the marble floor where the carpet met the service hall, close enough to hear if someone raised their voice.
Andre's mother tilted the bottle upright, cradling it. The gold foil caught the light. "Andre, darling, lift your glass," she said, turning her body just enough to angle us toward the nearest table of guests. Two couples in their forties were watching over their centerpieces, pretending to check their phones.
Andre understood the assignment instantly. His face did something complicated and then smoothed. He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes and lifted the champagne flute he'd been holding since before I walked away. His left wrist flexed and I saw the watch, the ring on his left hand.
"Of course," he said, loud enough for the table to hear. "Big night. Can't do a fortieth without a toast."
His smile was terrible. Tight. Performed. He held the flute up like he was posing for a photo he didn't want taken, and the guests, relieved to have a script again, lifted their own glasses a few inches and nodded.
That was my window.
Behind the head table, against the wall where the catering staff had staged the extra linens, there was a large tote bag. Dark canvas, unzipped at the top. I'd left it there when I came in, tucked half-under the tablecloth so it looked like it belonged to the venue. No one had touched it.
I still had the water in my right hand, the clutch in my left. I took a sip, set the glass down on the edge of the banquet table with a soft click, and let my left hand drop naturally to my side. In the same motion I bent just enough to adjust the strap on my heel, the thigh slit of my gown shifting, sheer draping brushing my shoulder.
My clutch disappeared into the tote.
It made no sound. The glitter caught once and then was gone, swallowed by canvas. I left the tote open an inch, the beaded top edge hidden under a folded napkin I'd placed there earlier. My hands came up empty, relaxed at my sides, silver bracelet sliding down my wrist.
When I straightened, Andre was still holding his flute, still smiling at the guests. His eyes flicked down to my hands.
He expected to see the clutch. He saw empty hands and for half a second his smile faltered, like he couldn't figure out where it had gone without me walking anywhere. Then his mother shifted, bottle still in her arms, blocking his view of the table behind me.
"There," she said, patting his arm with the hand that wasn't holding the bottle. "That's better. Let's keep this nice."
I slid my empty left hand into my right and laced my fingers, casual, composed. The tote sat behind me, out of his sight line, the clutch secured inside it. He thought I still had it, or that I'd tucked it under my arm. He didn't look past me.
The green bottle with the gold foil rested against his mother's gold gown, upright and innocent, witness to both versions of the night — the public pour for the toast and the private reason I'd come back at all.
May you like
Andre lowered his glass without drinking. "Nice," he repeated, eyes back on my face.
Behind us, the bow-tie man watched the bottle, watched my empty hands, and said nothing.
