The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,61

More confident? Why was Pris still talking to Lorne? Didn’t she realize he was all wrong for her? And why did Felicia’s smile fade the minute she thought no one was looking? I’d known Felicia since I was a little girl, but did I really know her? If Felicia, if any of the women in the room, had written a letter to Dear Calpurnia, what would they have asked her? What advice would I have offered?

I couldn’t help but wonder, but maybe it was easier not to know. It’s one thing to worry about a stranger, and another to become emotionally invested in someone you see on a daily basis. That kind of caring takes energy I wasn’t sure I had, and a brand of vulnerability I wasn’t sure I wanted to expose myself to.

When Foster and Beau finally did arrive, the party was in full swing. Foster’s idea for getting his father out of the house had been to take him to the Champagne Bar at the Peninsula Grill for three old-fashioneds. By the time they showed up, both men were well lubricated, and Felicia was furious with her son. I overheard her chewing him out when I went to get a glass of wine.

“All I wanted you to do was get him out from underfoot for half an hour. Was that so much to ask? I was counting on you.”

“Well, Mother, that was your first mistake,” Foster slurred. “You should know by now that, where I am concerned, the only thing you can count on is that you can’t.” He paused and lifted a glass of dark amber liquor to his lips. “Me, I mean. You can’t count on me.”

Before Felicia could continue her scolding, Beau tripped on the fringe of a thick Persian rug and fell into the arms of Bradley Baudoin, starting a chain reaction of whoops, laughter, and breaking glass. Felicia thrust a tray of bacon-wrapped dates she’d been carrying into Foster’s hands.

“Take these and pass them around. I’ll deal with you later,” she hissed, then hurried away to rescue her husband and sweep up the broken glass before anyone stepped in it. “Beau, darling, that is enough bourbon. Save some room for cake.”

“Do you think she’s going to ground me?”

Foster turned toward me, plucked a date from the tray, and popped it into his mouth. I assumed this was a rhetorical question and didn’t respond. But Foster had a point; Felicia should have known better.

Foster was shiftless, unreliable, and spoiled and everybody knew it. Once upon a time, he had been something approaching handsome. I’d had a brief crush on him when I was about eleven but that was almost twenty-six years ago. Now he reminded me of an overfed, sunburned toddler.

“Date?” Foster mumbled, his mouth full.

“No, thanks. I already ate too many crab puffs.”

Foster shook his head and swallowed. “I was asking if you’d like to go out on a date.” I looked at him blankly and he clarified his terms. “With me.”

“Oh.”

He took another drink. “What are you doing on Friday? There’s an Italian restaurant on Spring Street, Kink Practice—”

Before I could say thanks but no thanks, Foster started coughing. His already florid face turned scarlet. I pounded his back and scanned the room, searching for help. Was he choking? Or having a heart attack? Or was this just a usual thing with him? Whatever it was, it sounded bad, and scarlet was turning to vermilion.

Trey was standing near the buffet table. I made my eyes go wide in a silent but desperate call for rescue. He immediately put down his plate and started wending his way through the crush of inebriates, forced to take a circuitous route to reach my side of the room. But then, just as abruptly as he’d started, Foster stopped coughing and lifted his bourbon to his lips as if nothing had happened.

“Kink Practice,” he slurred after swallowing, and blinked several times in succession, as if trying to force the room into focus. “Friday. Around seven?”

I felt a hand on my elbow. Lorne had appeared out of nowhere and was standing very close to me, possessively close.

“Pink Cactus,” Lorne said. “And it’s Mexican, not Italian. But I’m afraid she can’t make it, Foster. She’s already got a date on Friday night, with me.” Lorne winked at me and smiled, then draped his arm over my shoulders. I smiled back, grateful for the intervention. Lorne glanced down at my wineglass.

“Looks like somebody needs a refill,” he said, even