Calamity at the Continental Club

by Colleen J. Shogan

  Doug and I found seats next to his parents. Frederick and Lola joined our table, along with the Mayflower Society’s fearless leader. While pleasantries were exchanged, another couple approached our festive group and asked if any available seats remained.

  Grayson jumped up immediately. “Of course! Cecilia, you’re always welcome at my table!”

  The woman appeared the same age as the majority of the other attendees, but her partner was close to two decades younger. She’d made a good attempt at preserving the remnants of youth, sporting perfectly dyed chocolate brown, shoulder-length hair, a springy A-line dress, and strappy silver sandals. Toned arm muscles provided evidence of an impressive physical fitness regimen. Her keen fashion sense and killer body couldn’t mask the crow’s feet and fine lines, which had probably been subdued by Botox and a face lift. But she still looked damn good.

  “You do remember my husband, Drake?” she asked.

  Grayson’s expression darkened. “Yes, I’m sorry we couldn’t come to your wedding. Kiki had a prior commitment that weekend.”

  Cecilia nodded curtly. “We received your note. And your generous gift.”

  Drake perked up instantly. Tall and slim, he wore an expensive-looking linen suit with a trim Armani dress shirt and tie. His tanned skin matched his sun-bleached blond hair, which he wore slightly long, perhaps in an attempt to reclaim his earlier days as a teenage heartthrob. “Is this the guy who sent us the expensive vase?”

  Grayson bristled. “You mean the Lalique sculpture.”

  Drake was apparently undeterred. “In the shape of a heart, right?”

  Grayson blinked. “Yes, that’s it.” He turned toward Cecilia, eager to end the vacuous exchange with Drake. “When will you finish your next book?”

  Cecilia wagged a forefinger at him. “I would expect nothing less from you, Grayson. Always playing the businessman. We’ll have plenty of time to chat about my writing career this weekend. Let’s sit down so our friends don’t have to wait on us.”

  An empty seat remained at our eight-person table. As if on cue, a single man appeared and inquired whether the seat next to me was available. I told him yes, and he sat down. Offering his hand, he introduced himself in a confident voice, “Professor James Mansfield.”

  Even if he hadn’t included the title in his introduction, I would have guessed my dinner companion was a professor. Despite the springtime weather, he wore a tweed jacket with a matching vest. If he was roasting inside the wool, he didn’t show it. Mansfield looked natural in tweed, almost as if he had been born wearing it. He completed his academic ensemble with a red handkerchief sticking out of his coat pocket. He reminded me of Professor Plum from Clue, except Mansfield was African-American and Plum’s senior by a decade. After exchanging pleasantries, I asked Professor Mansfield what subject he taught and where.

  Before he could reply, Doug broke in, “He teaches the most popular American history classes at Yale. Good to see you again, Professor Mansfield.”

  Mansfield gave a curt nod. “Professor Hollingsworth from Georgetown. I plan to read your latest book once the semester is over.”

  Not surprisingly, Frederick was listening from across the table. He asked teasingly, “Is there room for two history professors at this shindig?”

  Mansfield didn’t crack a smile. Perhaps Frederick had hit a nerve. “I’m sure we’ll manage,” said the professor.

  Doug must have picked up on Mansfield’s discomfort. “I’m not here as an expert or a member of the society. Kit and I are guests of my parents. We’re using the occasion to visit with them.”

  I shifted my gaze to Professor Mansfield, who responded, “Thank you for the clarification. It is most appreciated.”

  Jeez, I hoped the wine steward would refill our glasses soon. We needed to lighten the mood. The springtime temperatures had done nothing to thaw the icy relationships within the Mayflower Society. This supposed group of longtime friends and their coldly formal ways could give the British royal family a run for its money.

  Waiters began serving the first course, Maryland Crab Soup. Immediately after the soup was presented, the staff returned with a basket of rolls. They smelled heavenly. When I reached inside to select one, it was warm to the touch.

  Cecilia must have noticed my fascination. “That’s the famous Continental Club roll basket, dear. It’s served at all our formal meals and functions. Quite delicious.”

  Her boy-toy husband aside, Cecilia seemed friendly enough. “Have you been to the Continental Club before?”

  “I’ve been a member for almost a decade. After my first bestseller I was recruited.”

  Since my reading preferences were more along the lines of Laura Lippman than Ann Patchett, my Kindle library was notably light on literary fiction. Given this crowd, Cecilia might have won the Nobel or Pulitzer. Or worse yet, some other important award I’d never heard of.

  Best to feign as much ignorance as possible, a trick I’d perfected as a Capitol Hill staffer. “I didn’t catch your last name earlier. What type of books do you write?”

  “My name is Cecilia Rose, and I write erotic romances. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Savannah’s Sultry Nights series?”

  Who hadn’t? I’d assumed Cecilia penned novels filled with social commentary or criticism about the human condition. Instead, she was a woman after my own heart.

  “Of course. I haven’t read much romance, but I know your books. They’re everywhere!” I wasn’t exaggerating. Every bookstore, airport shop, and large retailer prominently featured the latest Cecilia Rose novel.

  Grayson Bancroft interrupted. “Still behind Danielle Steel! Isn’t that right, Cecilia? Can’t seem to catch her.”

  Cecilia sighed. “Even Jackie Collins couldn’t catch Danielle Steel, Grayson. Get over it.”

  Why did Grayson Bancroft care about Cecilia Rose novels? He didn’t strike me as someone who liked to curl up with a racy story on a Saturday night.

  Grayson satisfied my curiosity soon enough. “Now, now. That’s not what I want to hear from my number one author.”

  Cecilia evidently noticed my puzzled look as I monitored the verbal volley between her and the Mayflower Society president. “Grayson owns my publisher,” she explained. “That’s why he’s so interested in my career. He doesn’t care a lick about what I write or what awards I win. He just wants to sell more books.”

  Cecilia’s husband Drake had been listening to the conversation as he finished off his soup. Raising his hand to draw attention to himself, he said, “That’s something Grayson and I have in common.”

  Cecilia rolled her eyes. “Typical.”

  “Drake is right. Nothing wrong with wanting to make money,” said Grayson. “When did you say the next installment of Savannah would be ready?”

  Cecilia picked up her refilled wine glass and drained half of it. “I didn’t say.”

  The creases in Grayson’s forehead deepened. “We can talk about the timing later. But there’s going to be more books in that series.”

  Cecilia appeared unnerved by Grayson’s insistence. “Fine. If you’re so enamored with Savannah, maybe you should write it.”

  Frederick Valdez tittered. “It’ll be a cold day in you-know-where when Grayson Bancroft writes a romance novel. Or anything more creative than a stock prospectus.”

  Lola laid her hand on top of her husband’s. “There’s no need for insults. We haven’t even started our main course.”

  Grayson dismissed the jibe with a wave of his hand. “Water off a duck’s back.”

  I’d been waiting for an opportunity to excuse myself to check in with Meg. She was responsible enough, but Clarence alternated between angel and devil. His bipolar nature plus his impressive doggie intelligence made him a worthy opponent. I hoped Meg hadn’t gotten played.

  Social clubs often didn’t allow cellphone use in most public spaces within the building. After excusing myself, I headed downstairs one flight to the bar. After all, this was Washington D.C. What respectabl
e bar didn’t allow a quick iPhone conversation?

  The curved booth near the entrance was free so I ducked inside and whipped out my phone to text Meg.

  How are you managing with Clarence?

  Three dots indicated Meg was replying.

  No comment.

  Uh-oh. That didn’t sound positive.

  I wrote back immediately.

  ???

  She responded with a photo instead of a text message. I clicked on the thumbnail to get a better look. A tan sandal that had been worked over by Clarence’s teeth appeared.

  What happened? I added a sad face emoticon to show Meg I felt her pain.

  Likely writing a missive, Meg took a minute or two to answer. Sprinkled with a smattering of colorful expletives, her text explained that she’d taken Clarence out for a jog, just as we’d suggested. Clarence had waited until Meg jumped in the shower to carry out his clever canine caper. With shampoo in her hair, Meg felt as though someone was staring at her. She turned around, only to see that Clarence had peeked around the shower curtain with her sandal in his mouth. After brandishing his prize, he’d sprinted into the bedroom and proceeded to tear her shoe apart.

  I rubbed my eyes.

  I’ll take you shopping soon. I added a smiley face.

  Meg loved her fashion and had a quick temper. But she never stayed angry for long.

  How’s Buffy & Winston?

  I typed back, Surviving. Need to get back to dinner. Talk tomorrow.

  The bartender Charles appeared at the table. “Giving up this early on the conference?” He smirked playfully.

  “No, I had to text my friend who’s watching our dog this weekend. I’m headed back.”

  “Need a drink? I can fix you something that will make the rest of the night smooth sailing.”

  “A tempting offer, but I’d better keep my wits about me.”

  He gave me a polite salute, and I jogged back up the stairs. Hopefully no one had missed me. If I was really lucky, maybe the table conversation had turned in a more positive direction.

  Edging unnoticed into my seat, I focused intently on my main course, which had just been served. The grilled Atlantic salmon smelled wonderful. While chomping away, I listened to the conversations around me. Drake had engaged in a passionate discussion with Buffy about tennis techniques. Mansfield was explaining his latest academic article to Winston Hollingsworth, who seemed to be in seventh heaven. Lola had monopolized Doug on the subject of politics, and my fiancé seemed in need of rescue.

  I tapped him on his arm. “How’s your steak?” Doug had opted for the more indulgent dinner choice.

  “Excellent,” he mumbled in between bites.

  I lowered my voice. “What’s the exit plan for this evening?”

  “Exit plan?” he repeated.

  “How long do we have to hang out? In case you haven’t noticed, these people really don’t like each other very much.”

  “What do you mean? Of course they do. The people at this table have been attending the annual Mayflower Society conference in cities across the country for the past two decades. They’re old friends.”

  “With friends like that, who needs enemies?”

  Doug shook his head. “It’s nothing more than well-meaning competition. All these people are wildly successful and wealthy, Kit. Bragging is second nature to them.”

  It was an odd formula and certainly didn’t resemble my friendships. Every once in a while Meg and I exchanged a barbed comment or two, but these people took sociable repartee to a new low.

  I heard Buffy’s voice. “Kit? Can you hear me across the table?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hollingsworth. I was just, um, enjoying my salmon.” I shoved a big bite of fish inside my mouth.

  “I’m glad you like it, dear. We need to go over the schedule. Grayson tells me a curator from Monticello is giving a lecture tomorrow morning after breakfast.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” I tried to feign excitement. James Mansfield and Winston had stopped talking, and I felt the weight of the professor’s stare. He could probably see right through me, just like those Yale undergrads he tortured on a daily basis.

  Buffy clasped her hands together in excitement. “It’s unfortunate we’ll have to miss the talk.”

  “We will?” I looked quizzically at Doug. As far as I knew, the next two days were scheduled to the hilt—nonstop history overload. Maybe Doug’s mother wanted to trade Monticello for shopping on M Street.

  “Didn’t Doug tell you? He was supposed to fill you in. The two of us,” she motioned with her finger, “have an appointment with the events planner here at the Continental Club who specializes in weddings. It’s the perfect opportunity to plan your once-in-a-lifetime event!”

  Buffy could hardly contain her enthusiasm. She widened her eyes, already popping, thanks to expertly applied makeup.

  Winston gave her a disapproving glance. “Really, Buffy. Did you ever think Kit might want to attend the lecture with Doug?”

  From the look on Buffy’s face, it was clear that notion hadn’t crossed her mind. She huffed, “Of course, if Kit would rather attend the Mayflower event, I understand. However, it will be impossible to reschedule the appointment. Since we’re not members, I had to rely on Cecilia for assistance.”

  I shot Cecilia a pleading glance. Surely she would empathize with the desperation I tried to silently convey.

  No such luck. “You’re right, Buffy. I’d keep the meeting. We had our wedding at the Continental Club and adored it, didn’t we dear?”

  Drake appeared more interested in his steak than reliving the details of his nuptials. His mouth full, he simply gave a thumbs-up with his left hand.

  I could feel the weight of Doug’s stare. There was no way out. “It can’t hurt to talk to a professional planner,” I said.

  It was the best I could muster, but apparently it was enough. Buffy’s face lit up like the White House Christmas tree. “Fabulous! Our meeting will take place after breakfast. Don’t worry. We will join the rest of the group for the Mount Vernon tour in the afternoon.”

  Doug squeezed my knee in appreciation. I managed a tight smile in response before lifting my wine glass for a sizable chug.

  Profiting from the lull in conversation, Grayson clinked his glass to attract everyone’s undivided attention. “It gives me great pleasure to welcome my closest friends to another gathering of the Mayflower Society. Over the next several days, we will hear from historical experts and travel to several of our nation’s most cherished landmarks and venues.”

  I stifled a yawn. The pre-dinner drinks and wine had begun to take their toll. Grayson’s speech wasn’t helping me stay awake, either.

  “Before I say a few words to the entire society, I wanted to let you know that I plan to stand for another term in office as the Mayflower president.”

  A sideways glance at Winston Hollingsworth confirmed my suspicions. Doug’s father didn’t even bother to hide his annoyance. The rest of the table appeared indifferent. Drake fiddled with his phone, Cecilia checked her makeup with her pocket compact, Frederick asked the waiter for a wine refill, Lola examined the printed program of scheduled events, and Professor Mansfield stared into space. Like me, Doug gazed at his father. He’d noticed Winston’s grimace, too.

  No pats on the back or congratulations followed Grayson’s announcement. My future mother-in-law, who prided herself on her impeccable social graces, broke the uncomfortable silence. “The Mayflower Society is lucky to have you at the helm, Grayson.” Her polite comment carried the weight of obligation.

  “Thank you, Buffy. I’m sure the treasurer is especially happy to know my donation to the society will be secure for another year.” He chuckled smugly at his own backhanded compliment.

  Grayson’s last remark must have been the last straw for Winston. “It’s not required for the president of the Mayflower Society to donate more than the yearly dues, Grayson. And everyone at this table knows it.”

  Mansfield emerged fro
m his daydream and perked up at Winston’s comment. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Winston has a point. Your generous support of Mayflower is appreciated, but it’s not required for leadership.”

  Grayson’s eyes narrowed. “Of course not. But my continued leadership and financial support keep these annual meetings affordable, especially for the less wealthy among us.” He looked pointedly at Mansfield, who turned red with anger.

  Lola Valdez chimed in, “I don’t care about the money, but I do care about the direction of the Mayflower Society. This was never a politically conservative organization until you became its president, Grayson. You shouldn’t be using it to further your own agenda.”

  This was getting interesting. Would anyone else register disapproval?

  A hush fell over the table. Doug finally spoke. “Mr. Bancroft, can I ask where your wife is? Is she joining us for the meeting?”

  Grayson looked grateful, as if Doug had thrown him a life preserver. “Kiki returned last week from an extended trip to South America. She sends her regrets.”

  Cecilia piped up, “We’ll miss her. Won’t we, James?”

  Professor Mansfield jerked his head upward when he heard his name. “Of course. Kiki always brightens up the Mayflower meetings.”

  Doug whispered, “Cecilia and Kiki have been lifelong friends. I’ll tell you about Mansfield later.”

  I acknowledged Doug’s private comment with a subtle smile.

  Mansfield was the only other attendee at our table without a spouse. “Professor, will you be joined by a significant other?” I asked.

  With a polite but irritated tenor to his voice, he replied, “No. I’m a bachelor.” The terseness of his response implied he’d rather not entertain questions of a personal nature.

  So much for raising a topic other than American history with the good professor. The wait staff began serving the dessert. Not a moment too soon. The sugar in the key lime cheesecake provided the only remnant of sweetness at our table.

  After coffee arrived, Grayson Bancroft welcomed the entire room and promised an “intellectual feast of American history” during the conference. The dinner we’d enjoyed tonight had been none too shabby. As long as the food and drinks kept coming, the weekend held promise. Grayson also graciously accepted the society’s nomination for another term. The actual election would take place at the end of the conference on Sunday. Doug’s father remained silent throughout the whole affair, although if looks could kill, Winston Hollingsworth would be guilty as charged.