CHAPTER 2
Vaughn
The trees were on fire. The setting sun painted red, yellow, orange, purple in the sky, tipping the edges of the oaks’ leaves and firs’ needles black against its blaze. The air around my Falls Church home was sweet with lilacs, the smoke from my pipe, and the subtle scent of Arpège from Valerie, who sat next to me at the picnic table strewn with half-eaten wedding cake samples. The taste of sugar was bright on my tongue, even through the smoke and the bourbon.
Maybe a little too much bourbon, if I were being honest. Because though I should have been thoroughly occupied by my best friend on the last evening before her wedding, instead, the leaves weren’t the only thing that sunset had set on fire. The swirl of color, so like the Staunton painting that had been the highlight of Keith Oakley’s party two nights before, had set my mind ablaze with him.
William Fox.
The one who had at first seemed like an ordinary man with unremarkable brown hair and an ill-fitting suit, and had, with a few passionate words, captured my imagination.
He’d introduced himself as “Will.” Just Will. I smiled at the memory of him giving himself to me as easily as his name promised. But if Will was what he gave the world, then I would think of him as William. William Fox. It suited him, with his wary amber eyes and the slinky way he’d moved under my hands. In my mouth. His fingers in my hair, mine wrapped around his hard heat, and then his hips as I swallowed him, clean salt and the musk that was just William Fox.
I cleared my throat as my mouth flooded with saliva at the memory, and spread my legs wider to accommodate my response to the memory of dropping to my knees at the sensibly shod feet of the handsome stranger, and tried to return to the present before Valerie could call me on being distracted.
I swiped a finger through the lavender frosting between layers of green tea cake and licked it off thoughtfully. What was matter-of-fact William Fox’s favorite kind of cake? Probably vanilla. And if you teased him about it he probably responded with a logical and well-reasoned explanation of how high-quality vanilla was a complex and delicious flavor, cultural associations notwithstanding. I snorted at the thought.
“This could have been us, you know,” Valerie said, voice wistful with bourbon and memories.
“It would have been lovely for the month it lasted,” I said. And I meant it. “Before we killed each other, that is.” I meant that too.
“Yes, I know.” Val sighed with the same combination of resignation and relief she’d always shown about the end of our romantic relationship. “So, do you think you’ll ever do this?”
“What, eat wedding cake samples procured under false pretenses on the night before my wedding to the man of my dreams?”
Her swat caught me on the shoulder. “Yes.”
“Well, I’m not quite the cake fan you are, truth be told.”
Cookies. I was suddenly sure that William Fox was more of a cookie man than a cake one. Chocolate chip cookies, or perhaps ice cream. Mint chocolate chip.
“Very ha,” Val said, elegant nostrils flaring. But her gaze was discerning, despite the bourbon.
The truth was that I had thought about a wedding to the man of my dreams. I wasn’t sure why it had always been a man, given that I swung both ways. Maybe it was the tendency of the wedding industry to be shown from the perspective of women who were assumed to be straight.
But, yes, I had imagined a wedding in the sprawling backyard of the Falls Church house, the lush foliage that surrounded the grounds insulating the festivities from the outside world, the sun filtering through the leaves, turning them to stained glass and dappling the ground below. I had imagined the clean air shot through with laughter and music and conversation, with the smells of food and commingling perfume, cologne, and aftershave. Imagined being magnetized to another man no matter how far apart on the grounds we drifted, the connection between us thrumming like a plucked harp string, vibrating us back together again.
I had, in short, imagined the wedding that was going to happen tomorrow. Because if I couldn’t have it for myself, at least I could host it for my best friend.
I cleared my throat. It felt like the lavender frosting had gotten stuck somewhere halfway swallowed and I threw back another sip of bourbon to burn it down.
“I suppose time will tell,” I said. I took Val’s hand before she could press the matter. “I’m so happy for you.” I clinked my glass with hers. “And heaven save Dallas if he treats you like anything less than a queen.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” she said. For all that she wasn’t afraid to ask for exactly what she wanted, Valerie was generous and down to earth, and if people treated her like a queen it was only because they were pleased to serve at her behest.
She sipped her bourbon, head tilted back to look at the sky, ash blonde hair hanging over the back of her seat. The stars were always visible here, except on the foggiest of nights, and for as long as I could remember that had given me comfort—the sense of being connected to a place in the universe. A fixed point where I could watch the angle of the stars change with the seasons.
I had a loft in D.C. as well, a modern loft gleaming with stainless steel appliances and polished poured cement floors and countertops, but the Falls Church house felt like home. It wasn’t just the stars or the beauty of the leaves changing in the autumn and the flowers blooming in the spring. It was the history. My family’s home had played host to generations of Vaughns, and when I was here I felt connected to something larger than myself. It was what made my work feel worthwhile, remembering that the work of generations of my family had produced the wealth that I now divested myself of to help others create things for themselves and their own families’ futures.
So what if I was forty-two and that if things kept going the way they had been then my family name and the dollar signs attached to it would be the only things I left behind? So what if the things that brought me the greatest thrills weren’t things I could ever take credit for—well, the less said about those the better.
I told myself I was just melancholy at the thought of my best friend getting married, even if it didn’t change anything between us. Melancholy that I’d be hosting with no one I’d like to invite as a plus-one.
Melancholy enough that I’d been reckless. After sharing a few minutes of conversation with William Fox, I’d imagined dancing with him under the canopy of trees, clinking champagne with him in the flutes that Grandmother had bought in France. And after sharing a few minutes of…other things, I’d imagined taking him upstairs after the wedding was over, stripping him out of whatever horrible suit he’d surely wear, and bending him over the window ledge in the master bedroom so we could look out at the detritus the party had left behind as we came together.
I’d been reckless and I’d left William Fox a rather…aggressive invitation to the wedding. One that would either impress him mightily, or send him running in the other direction.
But he’d been so adorably out of sorts about Oakley’s mercenary approach to art collecting. So grumpily offended by his treatment of it. And so deliciously oblivious to my flirting or to his own appeal that I’d wanted to give him something. I’d wanted to give him something that no one else could.
“Where did these cake samples come from, anyway?” Val asked, jolting me to attention. She was managing to eat bites of cake without choking while still looking up at the stars.
“From Crumb Coat, an aggressively modern up-and-coming bakery in the square that specializes in these kind of unusual flavor combinations.” I gestured to the jewel-bright slices of cake on the table. “I knew your mother would punish you for the rest of time if you actually chose any of them for your wedding cake, but I thought you’d like them.”
“Yes, Mother would have a conniption, and yes, they’re delicious. I especially liked the rose cake with lemon frosting. Oh, and the pretzel with salted caramel, dear god. Mmmm, and what is this one? I love this one.”
“Blueberry streusel with currant cream cheese frosting. I’ll order a cake from them for one of the next parties to offset the cost of all these free samples,” I said.
Val’s eyes looked a little misty when she turned them to me and smiled. Yes, a bit too much bourbon for sure. “Thank you for all this. The wedding. The arrangements. For officiating. Just…thank you for everything.”
She grabbed my hand and twined our fingers together like she’d done a thousand times over the years. Her engagement ring cut into my finger, a reminder of what tomorrow would bring.
“I hope one day you’ll get to plan something for yourself, instead of always for everyone else,” she said, her words ever so slightly slurred.
And I knew she meant to be kind, but it stung just a little, a tiny barb working its way under my skin and sitting there uncomfortably for a long time after.
* * *
It was perfect. The late summer weather was cooperatively mild, Val and Dallas Fairbanks were gorgeous, the guests were enthusiastic, and the food and alcohol were flowing liberally. The white fabric of the tent looked sharp against the perfectly even green grass outside. I didn’t even mind sacrificing the grass beneath the tent to Val’s insistence on flooring so that high heels wouldn’t sink into the ground while dancing. Lines of potted ferns gently encouraged guests from the large tent to the smaller one that housed the food and the bar. A few children turned cartwheels on the soft grass near the tree line, and a few more lounged apathetically in the sun, tired from a game of tag.
The ceremony and my speech had gone off without a hitch and now I could relax a bit until the next person needed me. Only one thing hadn’t gone to plan: William Fox hadn’t accepted my invitation.
I’d run through all the possibilities I could think of. One of his neighbors had gotten curious about the box outside his door and taken it for themselves, so he’d never seen it. The note had fallen off the wall and stuck to someone’s shoe, so he hadn’t gotten it. He was some kind of aggressive homebody and hadn’t even opened his apartment door since the party three days ago. He’d been horrified that I would liberate the Staunton from Oakley’s possession, and planned to rip me a new one if he ever saw me again. He’d called the police in outrage to report me as a thief and they were just backlogged, but would show up any day. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t been interested in me. And how was that the possibility that hurt worst?
I was caught in a thoroughly boring conversation about overseas tax law, and had finally given up any hope that my plus-one might materialize when I glanced up to see the man himself picking his way carefully along the path from the driveway.
William Fox, in the flesh. And in that same damned suit, ill-fitting, and too heavy for the weather. I excused myself and made my way toward him, fizzing with excitement, even if Mr. Fox was apparently not a punctual date.
When I got close, I smiled and raised a hand, suddenly feeling…was that nerves? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been nervous about anything. But when he turned toward me, he didn’t smile back. I thought I saw a flicker of something like regret in his eyes as he looked me up and down, then his face fixed in a stern mask of professional distance.
“Mr. Vaughn. Could I have a word with you…in private?”
“Mister is it, now?” I flirted, hoping that he was just nervous around a lot of new people. But my stomach gave an uncomfortable twinge.
“It is essential that I speak with you.” He sounded stilted and adjusted his jacket awkwardly.
“Something tells me that your presence here does not indicate an acceptance of my invitation.”
His expression turned grim.
“Well then,” I said, falling back on manners. “I’m afraid that I have host duties at the moment. But please do stick around. Have a drink, enjoy the food. Valerie has exquisite taste.”
His eyes narrowed but he just said, “I’m willing to give you time, but I’m not leaving here until I speak to you.”
“Suits me just fine, William.” I turned back to the party, disappointment buzzing under my skin. I could feel William’s presence just over my right shoulder. Gesturing him toward an empty chair, I told him to make himself at home, and walked toward Valerie.
I was thrown. Not just disappointed but a bit embarrassed. As if I’d committed a faux pas in front of someone I respected.
When I got to Val, I glanced over to find that William hadn’t moved—hadn’t even sat down at the mostly empty table I’d brought him to. “Val, do me a favor.”
“Anything, sugar.”
I filled a plate with succulent barbequed pork, truffled bacon macaroni and cheese, and several of the miniature blue corn muffins, and handed it to her. “Take this over to that man with my compliments?”
“The handsome one in the horrible suit?”
“That’s the one. His name is Will.”
Even if this turned out to be the last time I saw him, it felt essential that no one called him William except me.
Val took the plate with narrowed eyes, but clearly saw that I’d said all I was going to on the matter. Her smile said that she’d play along but wouldn’t forget that I owed her an explanation. She wasn’t a fan of secrets, Val. Another reason we’d never have worked out in the long run.
When I next saw Val, she was dancing with Dallas, their hands entwined and their cheeks pressed together, so I didn’t intrude to ask how William had received the food. Val looked peaceful, and I was full of love for her. She’d found someone who appreciated her and made her happy. What would it be like to have someone accept everything about you? I scanned the thinning crowd and found William in conversation with one of the bartenders, though he didn’t seem to be drinking. He didn’t strike me as the particularly accepting sort.
About an hour later, Valerie and Dallas left, off to their home in Newport for a pre-honeymoon weekend, and the crowd dispersed. I found William examining my dahlias around the side of the house, sitting back on his heels in the mulch outside the flowerbed.
“Do I need to have a word with my gardener?”
“What?” William’s nose wrinkled adorably when he was confused.
“Generally, if I find people staring into my flowerbeds at parties, then either the punch has been altered or I’m in need of a word with my gardener.”
“Uh, no, I was just…looking.”
Looking could have referred to anything from Snooping to So bored of this party I preferred to pull weeds.
William straightened, brushing the dirt off his hands, and followed me inside. The staff was still cleaning up so I took him to the study and poured myself a brandy from the decanter on the sideboard. William shook his head when I held it up to him. I took a sip of brandy mostly because its warm, mellow golden taste was almost the color of Will’s eyes.
I stepped close to him and noticed a spot of barbeque sauce at the corner of his mouth. If I kissed him right now, I would taste brown sugar, tomato, and smoke on his lips along with that dark earthy flavor that was his alone.
“So, William. You came. But something tells me the sentiment behind my invitation has gone rather astray.”
“Then you admit that you left the Staunton painting and a note outside my apartment,” he said flatly, and my eyes narrowed.
“Have I miscalculated your interest?”
William looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or yell. It was smoldering.
“You have miscalculated my profession,” he responded. We were standing close enough to kiss, and when he reached a hand into his jacket, my breath caught. I wanted to help him strip it off and kiss that spot of barbeque sauce off his perfect mouth.
But he didn’t take his jacket off. He slipped his hand out holding something from his pocket. A badge.
An FBI badge.
I was lightheaded. I spent three beats of my heart wondering what the medical diagnosis would be for dying of sheer irony. I spent the next three mourning the story that I’d apparently been writing in my head. The story of how William and I might someday stand where Val and Dallas had stood today, looking into each other’s eyes and pledging ourselves to one another. Silly.
And then I locked it down. I drained my face of any expression and painted a new one on: vague concern. This expression said, Why on earth would an FBI agent want to talk to little old me?