“What does it matter if this gala goes down in history or not?” is what his gaze seems to say. What does it matter, as long as Mila likes it?
“I promised you a dance, didn’t I?” he asks her as we descend the wide, curving stairs.
And then we’re caught up in the clamor of the orchestra, the tinkling of champagne glasses, and the robust cheer of a hundred voices mingling.
Mila is right. Daniel outdid himself.
While I’m a quick study at estimated growth, foreign-market strategy, long-term planning, contracts with suppliers and distributors, and import/export negotiations, Daniel is the brains behind our brand, our marketing, our cachet. We’re the best team because I’m most comfortable behind a desk, planning and combing through market projections, while Daniel shines out in the world, bringing our vision to life.
Of our sibling duo I’m the introvert, the thinker, while Daniel is the extrovert, the doer.
The day my mum dropped me on my dad’s doorstep and I met two-year-old Daniel was one of the best days of my life. I had all my possessions in a scuffed baby-blue suitcase—two tie-dye dresses, a tumbled moonstone, a stuffed bichon more gray than white, a pack of peanuts I was saving for when I was really hungry—and my dad sent me up to the nursery where Daniel and his nanny were.
I crouched on the floor next to him and thunked my suitcase down. It rattled loudly in the cavernous, wood-floored nursery. The room was austere, clean, and Daniel had the chubby-cheeked glow of a well-fed, well-loved child. Downstairs I could hear my mum telling my dad she was leaving me, just for a short time, while she found herself in Bali. There was yelling. Quite a bit of yelling.
Daniel’s blond fuzz of toddler hair glowed in the sunlight streaming through the window. His nanny, Brigitte, read a book about a mother rabbit always coming after her runaway son—never leaving him, always finding him, always loving him—and my lower lip wobbled.
That’s all.
But my baby brother, who had been staring at me with wide blue eyes, caught the tremor. He reached up with his chubby baby hand and softly patted my cheek.
My mum left. She didn’t find herself in Bali. Or in Kuala Lumpur. Or Jaipur. Or back home, on the Tor of Glastonbury. She never came back for me either.
But I didn’t know all that then. I only knew the little brother I’d never met was patting me on my cheek.
Meeting him was one of my best days ever.
I didn’t realize it at the time, of course, but we often don’t realize our lives courses have changed until years after the fact.
So, Daniel dances with Mila while I watch from the edges of the parquet dance floor.
She dances twice with Daniel, and three times with Max. She twirls around the ballroom, her white tulle skirt puffing around her like the snowflakes spinning in the sky outside. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes bright. The orchestra conductor, sensing her glee, leads a rousing version of the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.”
I weave between guests: Vincent from Swiss National Bank (shall our families plan a ski day this winter? Verbier?); Arne, the former mayor, and his wife, Mellisande (have you seen the new zoning proposal?); Phillipe, a competitor in the luxury watch market (sly comment about leather supplier superiority); Jean, a curator at The Musée d’Art et d’Histoire (angling for an invitation to view our private art collection).
And then, Mila finishes dancing and gorges herself on a plate of strawberry and pistachio macarons stacked like a Christmas tree and dabbed with flecks of edible gold. She drinks from a crystal goblet filled with spiced cider and pins a sprig of holly in her hair.
And finally, Annemarie, her nanny, leads her upstairs for a sleep filled with dreams of dancing, Christmas lights, and macarons.
And now it’s nearing midnight and I’m wrapped in Max’s arms, spinning around the dance floor to the orchestra strumming out “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”
Daniel left ten minutes ago, leading a gorgeous, lanky blond out a side door, his hand on the crook of her back. He’s thirty, unattached, and cat nip for all women, age one week to one foot in the grave.
Sometimes I worry he won’t find someone who appreciates him for who he is, especially when his face is always plastered all over the media, but he tells me not to big-sister him.
“You’re thinking hard,” Max says, smiling.
He’s right. I give him an apologetic smile. “Mila loved the gala. Did you see her expression when the snowflakes fell from the ceiling?”
He studies me, taking in my dance-flushed cheeks. “The snow was beautiful. Almost as beautiful as you.”
I glance quickly at Max. He shrugs and turns me around the dance floor.
The gala is quieting. At midnight everyone will filter out the door, into the cold night. Their breath will puff white in the darkness, and then they’ll climb into their cars and wind back down the drive. Max will join them, back to being my old friend and not this stranger who seems intent on ... something more.
As I swallow, wishing Christmas were here already, and then the New Year, Max’s gaze shifts to the ruby and emerald necklace resting on my collarbone.
“Do you like it?”