by Ann McMan
“You did?” Evan was surprised.
“I need to see my mother. To find out what she knows. What she knew.” She laced her fingers with Evan’s. “I have to.”
“Okay.” Evan raised their linked hands to her lips and kissed Julia’s fingers. “Do you want me to come with you?”
Julia’s eyes softened. “Yes. But you can’t. And I need to do this by myself.”
“I understand.”
“Thank you,” Julia whispered. She released Evan’s hand and stood up. “Are you ready to go now?”
“Are you sure?” Evan asked.
“Am I sure about what?”
“Tonight,” Evan clarified. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”
“It’s fine,” Julia said. “Don’t worry about me. Not about this. Believe me—this errand tonight is one thing I know how to do.”
“Okay.” Evan got to her feet. “Promise?”
Julia gave her a sad smile and kissed her gently. “I promise.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Evan thought she’d been inside some swanky, over-the-top places before, but nothing compared in scale or refinements to the Galileo Club. An immaculately dressed doorman greeted them at the entrance after the valet whisked Julia’s car away.
“What a pleasure it is to see you again, Miss Donne.” He held the door open for them. “Miss Reed, welcome to the Galileo Club. I hope you enjoy your evening.”
They entered a round, marble-floored foyer that was roughly the size of a ballroom. The walls were paneled in gleaming dark wood. Multiple mirrors reflected the light from an overhead chandelier that probably weighed a thousand pounds. Evan wondered whose job it was to keep the thing cleaned. It looked like a relic from Versailles.
Another perfectly groomed man glided toward them from . . . somewhere . . . and took their coats. He didn’t ask their names, so Evan assumed his entire reason for existing was simply to know which garments belonged to what guests.
Julia seemed to take everything in stride, so Evan did her best to follow her lead and not gape at anything.
That proved harder than expected.
Julia guided them toward one of the five doorways that opened off the foyer. It led to some kind of reception area. There were other couples milling about, laughing and chatting. All of them held cocktails in crystal tumblers or stemware. Classical music played at exactly the right level: loud enough to be heard, but soft enough not to interfere with conversation.
Another well-dressed drone appeared, wearing the short white jacket of a steward.
“Miss Donne? Miss Reed?” He bowed to them. “Would either of you care for a cocktail before dinner?”
Julia answered for them.
“That would be lovely; thank you, Sebastian.” She faced Evan. “What would you like, Evan?”
Evan was half-tempted to order a Bud Light, but she thought better of it. “I’ll have what you’re having,” she said magnanimously.
“Excellent.” The steward glided off.
Evan leaned toward Julia. “He didn’t ask what you want,” she whispered.
“Oh, he already knows what I want.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I were.”
“How many years did you say it had been since you came here?”
Julia thought about it. “I don’t think I did say. But it’s probably been at least six.”
“Six years?” Evan was amazed.
“Give or take.”
“Jeez. I get carded if it’s two weeks between visits to the liquor store.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Julia said. “It’ll ruin my veneer of icy reserve.”
Evan looked around the room. It was lavishly furnished with baroque sideboards, upholstered chairs, and settees ornamented with brightly colored pillows. There were Chinese vases containing tasteful displays of fresh cut flowers everywhere.
So far, no one seemed to notice that they had joined the assembly. Evan found that surprising. Several of the dozen or so couples sharing the space were seated in comfy chairs that were arranged around small tables.
“Do you know any of the people in here?” Evan asked.
Somehow, Julia managed to inventory the room without moving her head one iota.
Damn, Evan thought. I need to get her to teach me how to do that.
“Yes. I recognize a few people,” she said.
“Why have none of them descended upon you?” Evan asked. “Aren’t they overjoyed to welcome you back into the fold?”
“It’s not that,” Julia explained. “Initiating contact that might be unwelcome is considered classless.”
“Seriously? Why?”
“To put it bluntly,” Julia regarded her with a raised eyebrow, “not everyone may choose to end the evening dancing with the one who brung ’em.”
Evan’s eyes grew wide. “Well, I’ll be damned. I’ve lived a sheltered life.”
“Need any more explanation for why I hate this fucking place?” She shifted her gaze and looked past Evan’s shoulder. “Ah,” she said in a singsong voice. “Those look perfect. Thank you.”
The steward presented them with their cocktails and bowed to Julia before backing away.
Evan held her tall glass up to examine it. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s a reverse martini.” Julia sipped hers. “Perfectly made, by the way.”
“Okaaayyy.” Evan sniffed it. “What’s a reverse martini?”
“It’s one part gin and seven parts Noilly Prat French vermouth, finished with a gin floater and a twist of lemon.”
Evan tried hers. “Hell-o. Where have you been all my life?” She took another sip. It was even better than the first. “Damn. Don’t ever let Stevie try one of these.”
Julia did laugh then, and the silvery sound lightened Evan’s heart like nothing else could.
“Where’d you discover this wonderful thing?” she asked Julia.
“I didn’t discover it. This was Julia Child’s favorite drink.”
“That figures. She probably downed six or eight of these before every meal.”
“Apropos of that,” Julia took hold of Evan’s elbow, “how about we make our way to the dining room and get this show on the road?”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.”
As soon as they reached the threshold of a door that opened into an even larger room, a tuxedoed maître d’ met them. He carried two oversized menus with leather covers bearing the embossed crest of the Galileo Club.
“Miss Donne? I have your table ready. If you’ll please follow me?”
He led them to a small table, already set for two with gleaming china that bore the same crest that adorned the menus. It was located in a quiet-looking corner. Evan noted that the entire space seemed to have a plethora of quiet corners—which, by itself, must’ve presented a remarkable architectural challenge. The room was decorated in dark tones—coffered ceiling, walnut wainscoting, flocked wallpaper in gold and hunter green. There were no chandeliers in here. Instead, the room had low-contrast lighting coming from wall-mounted gaslights. There were ornately framed paintings everywhere—mostly hunting scenes. Men in shooting parties, surrounded by servants carrying bags filled with game birds. Epic fox hunting scenes. There was even a giant Constable-type landscape hanging over the largest fieldstone fireplace she’d ever seen. It was all very refined and tailored toward a decidedly masculine clientele.
Evan supposed this was one of the club’s smaller venues, since it only boasted about thirty tables.
The maître d’ graciously pulled out Julia’s chair for her, but left Evan to fend for herself.
Guess he tagged me as the butch in this equation . . .
She took her own seat.
Once he presented their menus and assured them their attendant would be with them shortly, he departed.
“What are you smiling about?” Julia placed her unopened menu down on the table.
Evan shrugged.
“Come on,” Julia coaxed. �
�Tell me.”
“I guess I found it insightful that he pulled out your chair, but left me to my own devices.” She shrugged. “I told Stevie this suit would make me look like a guy.”
“Believe me, you don’t look anything like a guy.”
“No?”
“No.”
“I guess maybe he got the memo that the prodigal daughter had returned,” Evan mused.
“I think it’s less complicated than that.”
“How so?” Evan deconstructed her origami swan of a napkin and placed it across her lap.
“I did rather advertise that you were my escort by clinging to your arm like a starstruck prom date as we walked in here,” Julia suggested. “I think he correctly interpreted the nature of our relationship.”
“Well damn.” Evan looked over at Jeeves, who had returned to his post at the podium near the dining room entrance. “I guess we have to tip him 30 percent now.” She held up a hand before Julia could respond. “I know, I know. There is no tipping at this joint.”
“That would be correct. I always knew you were a quick study.” Julia took another sip of her drink.
“Are you going to want another one of those?” Evan asked. Her own had gone down fast. Too fast.
“I don’t think so.” She looked at Evan’s glass. “Would you like another one?”
“Trust me. I’d like about a dozen more. But I think it’s better if I keep my wits about me. It’s going to be harder to scope this place out than I realized.”
“How much of a diversion do you need?”
“Enough of one that I can disappear long enough to chat up some of the staff.”
“They won’t talk to you.” Julia stated. “Discretion is their mission in life.”
“Not this staff,” Evan corrected. “The staff nobody gets to see. Kitchen workers. Busboys. Washroom attendants. Custodians. The little people who are probably invisible at a place like this.”
“That might be harder to negotiate.” Julia seemed to consider the challenge Evan had presented. “I suppose I could give you a tour? Show you some of the private sitting rooms and grander public spaces? If they’re not in use tonight, that might make it easier to wander astray and explain how I managed to get us lost—if we’re discovered wandering around where we’re not supposed to be.”
Evan grinned at her. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”
“I hope it’s a lot,” Julia said enigmatically. “I need it right now.”
To hell with the conventions. Evan reached across the table to take hold of her hand.
“It’s a lot,” she promised.
Julia held her gaze. They sat quietly until an attendant approached their table to take their orders.
◊ ◊ ◊
They dined on Chateaubriand en Croute with warm, wilted winter greens and Dauphinoise potatoes. Their exceptional meal was rendered extraordinary by the addition of a superb Bordeaux. They had both been taken aback when the sommelier showed up at their table with a bottle of Chateau Pontet Canet Pauillac and two glasses.
“What is this about?” Julia asked.
“A gift, madam,” he announced as he set about opening the wine. “With all best wishes, and the fervent hope you both will enjoy your meal tonight.”
“Might I ask to whom we owe thanks for this extraordinary gift?”
“Someone who wishes to remain anonymous, madam.” He poured a soupçon of the wine into one of the glasses. Julia indicated that he should offer it to Evan, who did her best to avoid swooning after she tasted it.
He filled Julia’s glass, then Evan’s, and departed after leaving the bottle on their table.
“What the hell was that about?” Evan asked.
“I have no idea. But I suppose we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
They clinked rims. Evan thought some of the tension was beginning to leave Julia’s body, but she wasn’t really sure. As Julia had said many times before, she was very good at disguising her true emotions when the situation called for it.
“How are you holding up?” Evan asked her.
“All right, I think. But I can tell you I won’t be sorry to never come back here again.”
“I’m sorry we had to do it tonight. I’m sorry we had to do it at all.”
“Don’t be. It’ll be over soon enough.”
They both made an effort to keep their conversation light throughout the rest of the meal.
Evan noticed that no check was ever presented. She supposed that would be considered classless, too.
When the attendant came to ask if either of them cared for a dessert offering or a digestif, Julia politely declined.
“Is it possible to go for a stroll outside?” she asked. “It would be lovely to show Miss Reed the grounds and tour some of the other wonderful facilities here.”
“You certainly may do that, Miss Donne. Would you like for me to arrange an escort for you?”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” Julia smiled at him. “I know my way around.”
“Of course.” He bowed. “I’ll have the valet meet you in the reception area with your coats. I hope you both enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Julia watched him walk off before facing Evan.
“Okay,” she said. “It’s showtime.”
Evan sedately got to her feet and walked around to Julia’s side of the table to pull out her chair. After Julia stood, Evan offered her arm with exaggerated gallantry.
“No flies on you,” Julia quipped.
They exited the dining room with all the practiced airs of regulars who belonged there.
◊ ◊ ◊
Apparently, the rules governing social discourse at the Galileo Club were as varied and specific as the zones within the facility. Once they had begun to stroll through some of the seemingly endless verandas and pavilions that ringed the exterior of the building, Evan noticed that other like-minded guests who were perambulating outside began to nod and wave at them with great collegiality.
Evan was impressed by the grandeur of the club campus. The landscape design and exterior appointments were every bit as luxurious as the interior, but they, at least, seemed to pay homage to the club’s Main Line heritage. Serpentine walkways lined with carved stone balustrades wove in and around manicured hedges and ponds the size of small lakes. It was more like strolling through a public park in Merion or Haverford than meandering around the grounds of a Center City club.
As they walked, Julia did a credible job of acquainting Evan with the location of various access points that should allow entry to areas where she could expect to find some of the club employees she hoped to chat up about Joey Mazzetta’s appearance there on Friday night.
Evan finally got her chance to break free and duck into an obliging doorway after a portly man and his blue-haired wife recognized Julia and stopped to renew acquaintance. Evan listened politely as Julia good-naturedly egged the couple on, inviting them to fill her in on the whereabouts of all five of their exceptional grandchildren. After getting the update on grandchild number one—some creature named Muffy, who was now a junior at Bryn Mawr—Evan politely interrupted to ask for directions to the nearest ladies’ room.
The portly man pointed out a nearby door and rattled off a sequence of turns it would’ve taken a cartographer to keep up with. Evan thanked him profusely and promised Julia she’d return in short order. Julia gave her a quiet smile before returning her attention to Mrs. Portly, who was now rhapsodizing about grandchild number two, a young man who crewed at Vesper, one of the snobbiest clubs on Boathouse Row. The last thing Evan heard as she departed was that this was the lauded club where the Kellys rowed . . .
Once she was safely inside the building, Evan followed her nose. The kitchen was her target.
She knew they had wandered close to the building’s loading dock, because Julia had pointed it out to her, just before they ran into the Portlys. Evan had speculated that this was proba
bly the way Joey managed to get inside the building, since it would be the only area not supervised by regular club personnel. As they’d earlier tarried near the innocuous industrial entrance, Evan could make out a couple of food service and linen trucks parked behind a low stone wall separating the service area from the rest of the campus.
She knew the kitchen had to be close by. So instead of taking a left when she entered the building, she took a right and walked in the direction of the loading dock. She heard some voices and the rattle of what sounded like rolling carts, and when she rounded a corner, she saw several uniform-clad kitchen workers pushing trolleys loaded with dirty dishes toward a set of double doors.
They looked up with a bit of wariness when they saw her approaching.
“Hey, there,” she said. “I’m Liz Bennet, with Sysco. We got reports there were some problems with condiments served here on Friday night. I’ve been trying to track down any of the bussers who might have been working that shift to help me find the culprits. The maître d’ told me to come back here.” She made a dramatic eye roll. “He said he was too busy to be bothered tonight.”
The men seemed to relax a bit.
“That sounds like him,” the taller of the two men said.
“You can follow us,” the shorter guy said. “I’m pretty sure Jorge was working that shift. He’s here tonight.”
Evan followed the two men and their creaking trolley down a short passage that ended in the club kitchen. It was a pretty impressive affair. Chefs worked a line beneath large computer monitors and barked orders at under-chefs and kitchen associates who delivered sauces and other prepped components of final dishes. She caught a glimpse of coated attendants waiting outside a pass-through area, where completed and dressed plates were presented before being cloched for transportation to diners.
They passed that station and proceeded to another area of the kitchen where a hive of dishwashers and bussers worked in a frenzy to keep up. Evan hadn’t paid much attention to how many people were dining with them, but she supposed it was fewer than fifteen or twenty other tables. She also supposed that on any given night, this place probably served meals in any number of private dining rooms, as well. There would be no way to anticipate how many of those might be engaged, or where Joey chose to make his guest appearance.
