Chapter 4 - Smiles For The Table
I didn't sit down right away. I could feel how long the quiet had gone on, the candles burning low in their glass, the ice softening in somebody's water. Rosa still held the pie with both hands like it was the only thing keeping her steady. Emma stayed half a step behind her, not touching her, but close enough to catch her if she swayed.
Vanessa fixed it first. That was what she was good at.
She pushed her chair back just enough to stand, lifted her champagne glass, and smiled the way she did for cameras at charity galas. Bright. Practiced. It didn't reach her eyes, but from the far end of the table it would have looked perfect.
"Well," she said, her voice light, "since we're all together." She glanced down the long table, left and right. "Luca and I wanted tonight to be about family. Old and new. So thank you for being here to celebrate with us. The wedding will be in June, at the vineyard. We hope you'll all be part of it."
A few people laughed, relieved. Glasses went up. Someone said congratulations. The sound rolled down toward me and broke apart before it reached Rosa.
I lifted no glass. I couldn't. My hands were still at my sides, and my face felt hot under the chandeliers. Vanessa's eyes found mine over the rim of her glass. Hold it together, that look said.
A server moved in to pull out the empty chair to my right, the one we'd left for a late investor who hadn't flown in. I nodded to him. "Here," I told Rosa, quiet. "Sit next to me."
Emma helped her with the coat. Rosa moved slow, careful with her knees, and set the pie pan down on the white cloth in front of the empty place setting. The metal made a soft clink against a wine stem. A woman halfway down the table stared at it and then looked away.
Vanessa sat again, smoothed her red satin over her lap, and leaned toward me while the servers started bringing the salads back out. Her dangling earring brushed my shoulder. Her smile stayed on for the table. Her voice didn't.
"Harlan is watching," she breathed, barely moving her lips. "He came tonight because he thinks you're stable. You told me this dinner would close the downtown deal. Please don't do this in front of him."
I looked past her. Harlan Cole sat four chairs down, sixties, silver hair, hands folded, watching us like he was reading a contract. He'd put money into two of my buildings. He didn't like surprises.
"I know what's at stake," I said.
"Do you?" she said. "Then ask Emma to take her to the kitchen. Give her food. Give her money. Quietly. After. Not here."
Under the table, my tattooed hand tightened on my knee. I could smell Rosa beside me, flour and apples and bus air, and for a second I was back in that small kitchen on Ferry Street at six in the morning, steam on the windows, her sliding a plate toward me before school because there hadn't been anything at home.
"No," I said. I kept my voice low so only she heard it. "I'm not moving her."
Vanessa's smile flickered. She picked up her fork, set it down again. "Luca."
"She eats here," I said. "With us."
She didn't answer right away. She turned to Rosa, and her tone lifted again, sweet enough for the guests to hear. "That's such a lovely pie. Did you bake it for us tonight?"
Rosa nodded, her hands now folded in her lap. "For him. He liked it warm."
A small silence opened around that. I felt Harlan and two others glance at each other. Vanessa laughed softly, like it was charming, and sipped her champagne. "How sweet," she said.
The servers set salads in front of us. Nobody really ate. Forks moved. Ice clinked. Someone asked about the vineyard, and Vanessa answered with dates and flowers and a band, her voice steady and polished. She was fighting for the night, I could see that. Not screaming. Steering.
But the split was out there now. I could feel the table watching us in pieces — me cutting nothing on my plate, Rosa sitting too straight in a chair too big for her with a pie where her salad should be, Vanessa glowing in red and holding the conversation together with both hands.
I leaned a little toward Rosa so my shoulder blocked some of the stares. "You okay?" I asked.
She nodded once, eyes on the candles. "Too many glasses," she whispered.
May you like
I almost smiled. "Yeah," I said. "There are."
Dinner started again around us, tense and polite, and none of us pretended it was normal.
