Page 76 of Plum

As we approach the table, the woman who must be his mother hustles away a girl, a young woman in a pearly white gown. That must be his sister, Marjorie. He’s mentioned her. She’s in college. She’s straining over her shoulder to get a gander at me.

“Sit,” Adam orders, urging me toward the seat his mother vacated. “What are you doing here?”

“Holy shit.” Eric, his bow tie crooked and his jacket unbuttoned, leans forward until he can see me. “I know you.” He leers.

“Shut up.” Adam points his finger at his brother.

“Both of you. Collect yourselves.” The older man, I’m assuming Adam’s stepfather, Thomas Wade, has lowered himself to sit on my other side. “Young woman. You know my sons?”

Eric chortles, almost spits the champagne he’s swigging. Next to Eric, there’s an older couple, the man gaping, the woman politely staring at the dance floor. Past them, there’s another man, a handsome, older version of Eric, and next to him is Harper Ruth, a shit-eating grin barely hidden by a glass of red wine.

“Young lady.” A rough hand presses on my bare shoulder. “I asked if you know my sons.”

My gaze flies to Adam, search those blue eyes, and I realize that I don’t want to say anything. I want—Ineed—him to speak. He needs to stand up and take my hand and tell all these people that I belong to him, only him, and he belongs to me.

He’s said it a dozen times, under the covers, in the car as we ride home at night, while we walk together on the trail that runs beside the Luckahannock.

He can say it now. I’m here. I came. It can be real. I made it real.

I keep my back ramrod straight, and I meet his eyes and hold my breath. I came here. I came to him. It has to mean something. He can’t just give up and throw it—me—away.

My bottom lip trembles, so I bite down on it.

And Adam sits there, frozen, his hands fisted on his thighs. Saying nothing. As if he’s waiting. For what?

“Ain’t you gonna say anything?” I ask.

“You came here, Jo-Beth. What is it you want to say?”

It’s a dare, but I don’t know the rules to this game. He’s furious and cold, and I’m supposed to have the magic words, I guess, but I’m lost. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.” I kind of startle when I realize I said it aloud.

Adam just stares at me, his jaw clenched, his eyes unreadable.

“Young lady, let me call you a ride.” Thomas Wade’s voice is not unkind. He wraps his hand gently around my upper arm and guides me to stand.

I wobble on my feet, a hot dizziness filling my head. I very respectfully remove Thomas Wade’s hand from my arm. “Thank you, sir, but I can see myself out. I ain’t gonna cause any trouble.”

I force myself to smile, and then I walk as calm as can be past Adam and Eric and the old couple and Des Wade and Harper Ruth, my nose in the air. I can’t feel my body, and it’s not the worst feeling in the world. It’s kind of like floating.

As soon as I’m off the dais, everyone very politely stops looking at me. I assume Adam’s still pretending he’s never seen me before. I don’t look back to check. I did catch Harper’s disappointment when I passed. She was hoping for a scene.

Maybe I was, too.

I head for the front, the crowd closing behind me, and I’m almost there when I see the hall to another gallery. There’s a bar at the far end.

You know what? Fuck it. I bet it’s an open bar.

There’re more black tuxedoes than red and white dresses in this space, and the ceiling’s lower. If I remember from that one field trip, I think it’s the museum café. There are high top tables lining two walls and stools.

I order a gin and tonic from the bar, and I was right. Open bar. I take myself to a seat in the corner, perch half on the chair ‘cause of the huge-ass skirt of my dress, and get down to business. Maybe I’m hoping Adam comes after me. Maybe that explains the sinking feeling in my gut as minute after minute passes.

While I wait, I check out the company. Less hair, fewer tattoos, and better smelling overall than my kind of people, but the men still laugh louder than the women, and the women still weigh each other up with their eyes. They seem less likely to end up brawling out back, but the night’s young, and I don’t know these people after all.

My heart gives a kick, so I chug the rest of my drink. He ain’t coming. I need to go.

“Looks like I’m just in time.” A beefy hand slides a fresh drink in front of me, and then a sturdy man in a black tux eases himself into the seat next to me. He’s a big guy, maybe forty. He’s got the beginnings of gin blossoms, a lot of product in his thinning hair, and a chunky watch.

That’s one difference between rich and poor people. Apparently, rich people still wear watches.

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