Page 106 of Free to Judge
The ballroomat the Plaza Hotel glitters as if it has been dressed in formal wear—much like the attendees. Some years, I think the party organizers plan it that way. Holding on to Peter’s arm, we make our way down the grand staircase after our names have been announced to the room at large, after Uncle Jared and Uncle Ryan, then my parents.
Every year since I became a graduate and officially received my invitation, I do a little happy dance inside knowing I’m attending the Fair Harvard Annual Reunion. There are faces in the crowd that people see on the news because they’re former presidents, members of Congress, or military officers of such high rank that their dress uniforms look like they’re wearing tiny, jumbled flags.
Still, it gives me a thrill to hear my name, “Katherine Laura Marshall, Harvard Law Class of 2018. Amaryllis Events. Escorted by Peter Freeman.”
Partway down the stairs, my parents pause. They both turn their heads and beam up at me. Their smiles aren’t because I followed in my father’s footsteps and attended his alma mater. Nor are their smiles because of the fortitude it took me to get through law school. Tonight, their smiles are because I had the strength to show up.
I descend the stairs, my head held high. When we make it to the bottom, Uncle Jared stops a waiter who is carrying a tray of champagne. After getting a glass for everyone, he lifts his in a toast. “Thank you, Kalie. Tonight, you made me feel a couple of decades younger.”
I grin. “What a lovely compliment, Uncle Jared. But nobody is intending on blowing anyone off tonight the way Mama did Daddy.”
Uncle Ryan snickers and my father groans even as my mother laughs. Peter frowns. “I don’t get it.”
My mother takes pity on him and explains that her first time attending the party wasn’t with my father but with Jared because Ryan was traveling. At the time, my father was less thanher favorite person and Uncle Colby, his father, recognized it instantly.
Peter, never one to not toss crap at a family member, drawls, “So, Uncle Keene, you mean my dad was tossing woo at Aunt Ali and you let your famous temper get in the way?”
“Again,” I tack on before my father can say anything. “The word missed in that statement is again.”
My father takes a sip of his own drink before tugging my mother close to his side. “Listen, your father had eyes for no one but your mother. Your aunt was using him to keep me from sweeping her off her feet.” His eyes narrow at Jared. “Come to think of it, you were involved with the great nacho debacle that night as well.”
Peter perks up. “Nachos? There were nachos involved? Hell, why didn’t anyone say anything.”
My mother rolls her eyes. “Like your uncle implied, same genetics, different decade.”
Just as I’m about to retort, another announcement is made. “Declan Sean Conian. Harvard Law, Class of 2010.” There’s a pause before the emcee slides the card into the champagne bucket, where he’s placing all the invitations.
For that precious moment, my father tenses, and then his shoulders relax imperceptibly. He mutters, “If he’d have announced he was working for Hudson, I would have had to have killed him.”
And if he announced he was a mob lawyer, then what?The thought causes a bubble of hysterical laughter to escape. Instead of saying who he worked for, Declan chose not to answer what isoften the most crucial question when attending the Fair Harvard Annual Reunion—your employer.
As he descends the steps, his eyes lock onto mine. They don’t leave even for a second. Peter steps closer and wraps his arm around my waist. I lean into his side, appreciating the support he offers. Declan eyes remain laser focused on our group before an eager waiter blocks his line of sight.
“Now would be an excellent time to mingle,” my mother encourages.
I should have known she would have anticipated this and had a plan in place. I swallow the last of the champagne and pass it over. “Good idea.”
Over the next hour, our small group mingles with friends and clients from Hudson as well as Amaryllis Events. Yet…I still feel like I’m being watched. Every few minutes, I turn around, expecting to find Declan.
“Do you really think he’ll approach you here?” Peter asks me when we have a moment alone in the crowd.
“I don’t know.” I truly don’t. He could be here undercover or he could be here for other reasons, none of which has anything to do with me.
That’s when a hand brushes my elbow. Peter’s eyes narrow and he practically snarls at the person behind me. Since this isn’t the first time in the last hour I’ve seen that expression on his face as I’ve been approached by numerous leaches, I expect one more. I turn and find it so much worse.
I’m face-to-face with Declan.
His lips murmur, “Firebrand.”
Before I can find the right words, Pete mutters, “I’m going to get your dad before I kill this guy here and now. Don’t move, Kalie.”
Seconds later, we’re alone in the middle of the crowd.
I study him much the same way I imagine he’s doing me. The other men in the room, with maybe the exception of my cousin, should cry at the way he looks so good in a tuxedo. The way it fits over his broad shoulders and nips in at his waist.
A waist I’ve traced with my hands, my mouth. Begrudgingly, I admit, “You look nice.”
“You look exquisite, Kalie.” He lifts my wrist to his lips and presses a kiss there.
