Page 173 of Homeport

twenty-eight

No one knew her stomach was alive with manic butterflies wielding tiny scythes. Her hands were cool and steady, her smile easy. Inside her mind she could see herself jittering with every step, stuttering through every conversation. But the shield was up, the unflappable Dr. Jones firmly in place.

She’d chosen to wear a long column of midnight blue with a high banded collar and sleeves that ended in narrow cuffs. She was grateful for the amount of flesh it covered, because she felt cold, so cold. She hadn’t been warm since Ryan had given her the book.

She watched her mother, elegant as an empress in a gown of petal pink, working the crowd—a touch on the arm there, an offered hand or cheek. Always the right thing to say at the right time to the right person.

Her husband was beside her, of course, dashing in his tuxedo, the well-traveled adventurer with the interesting air of a scholar. How handsome they looked together, how perfect the Joneses of Jones Point appeared on the surface. Not a flaw to mar the polish. And no substance beneath the gloss.

How smoothly they worked as a team when they chose, she thought. They would choose for the Institute, for art, for the Jones reputation as they had never chosen for family.

She wanted to hate them for it, but she thought of the book and all she felt was fear.

She turned away from them and moved through the archway.

“You belong in one of those paintings behind you.” Ryan took her hand, shifting her around moments before she approached another small group. “You look magnificent.”

“I’m absolutely terrified.” Then she laughed a little, realizing that only a few months ago she wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone what was inside her. “I always seem to be in crowds.”

“So we’ll pretend it’s just you, and just me. But one thing’s missing. You need champagne.”

“I’m sticking with water tonight.”

“One glass, one toast.” He handed her one of the flutes he’d taken from a roaming waiter. “To the very successful results of your work, Dr. Jones.”

“It’s difficult to enjoy it.”

“Fall into the moment,” he reminded her. “This is a good moment.” He touched his lips lightly to hers. “I find your shyness endearing.” He murmured it against her ear, causing more than one eyebrow to rise. “And your skill in masking it admirable.”

The clouds in her eyes lifted. “Were you born with that talent or did you develop it?”

“Which? I have so many.”

“The talent of knowing exactly the right thing to say at precisely the right time.”

“Maybe I just know what you need to hear. There’s dancing in the Center Hall. You’ve never danced with me.”

“I’m a terrible dancer.”

“Maybe you’ve never been properly led.” It made her eyebrows lift in mild disdain, just as he’d hoped. “Let’s find out.”

He kept a hand at the small of her back as they maneuvered through the groups. He knew how to work a crowd as well, she noticed. How to charm with a few words, and keep moving. She could hear the faint strains of a waltz—piano and violin—the murmur of conversation, the occasional trill or rumble of laughter.

She’d had the Center Hall decorated with trailing vines and potted palms, all glittering with the tiny white Italian lights that reminded her of stars. Fragrant white lilies and bloodred roses speared out of crystal vases draped in gold ribbon. Every individual drop of the antique chandelier had been hand-washed in vinegar water for a brilliant waterfall sparkle.

Couples circled, pretty pictures in their formal dress, or stood sipping wine. Others gathered on the staircase, or sat in the chairs she’d had dressed in rose damask.

At least a dozen times she was stopped, congratulated. If there were occasional murmurs about the Fiesole Bronze, most people were discreet enough to wait until she was out of earshot.

“There’s Mrs. Collingsforth.” Miranda nodded to a woman with an amazing stack of white hair in a gown of maroon velvet.

“Of the Portland Collingsforths?”

“Yes. I want to make sure she has everything she needs—and to introduce you. She’s very fond of attractive young men.”

Miranda wound her way through to where the widow was sitting, keeping time to the music with her foot. “Mrs. Collingsforth, I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Lovely music,” she said in a voice like the caw of a crow. “Pretty lights. It’s about time you put some punch into this place. Places that house art shouldn’t be stuffy. Art’s alive. Shouldn’t be stored like corpses. And who might this be?”

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