The Social Affair

by Britney King

  He raises his brow, and clearly he has secrets I’d be privileged to know. “You leave that to me.”

  I button my shirt and then hand him his tie.

  “But Izzy,” he says. His monotone voice comes out rough. “There’s something on my mind. Something serious.”

  I cock my head.

  There’s not an ounce of hesitation in him. Grant Dunn is not the kind of man who skirts around issues. I could get used to this. I’ve been waiting all my life. “I’d like to know why you haven’t invited me back to your place?”

  My cheeks grow hot. I don’t have an answer at the ready. I am not good enough for you. “I-I—”

  “Stop.” He cuts me off as he clasps his belt. “There’s only one right answer here…”

  I wait for it as he rubs his jaw.

  “I have to know it’s not because of that friend of yours.”

  He meets my eye then. “No,” I say. “I just didn’t think you wanted to see my apartment.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I mean…there isn’t much to see.”

  He shrugs, holds out his hands and looks around. “It has to be better than this.”

  I don’t say anything. He has a point.

  He walks over to where I’m standing, and he smiles intently. “I know,” he utters. “I’m probably rushing things.” He leans in and covers my mouth with his. I intertwine my hand in his hair, urging the back of his head closer. He pulls back. “But my God. I just can’t get enough of you.”

  “I’m not seeing Tyler anymore,” I offer, and then and there I know I’d promise anything he asked of me. He tastes that good on my lips.

  His eyebrows raise and his hand flies to his chest. “Wow,” he exhales. “I can’t tell you what a relief that is. I know—I know,” he adds, holding his palms toward me. “I’m not supposed to make demands. Especially given my own situation. But I can’t help but want you all to myself. And I realized—what’s so wrong with that?”

  I feel butterflies in my stomach. “Nothing,” I say, and I swear falling in love is the best thing ever. Grant Dunn is everything. There’s only one small problem. He’s married. Speaking of his wife, she’s been quiet on Instalook lately. Grant hasn’t mentioned it. He hasn’t mentioned anything about his family, really. Mostly, he wants to know about me. Thankfully, I don’t have to offer much. Typically, there isn’t time for talking. I start to ask him about the flowers. I want to know why he didn’t ask me about my favorite. But I’m probably overreacting. Also, it would seem kind of petty. Grant has never once given me the idea that he’s the kind of man to take shortcuts.

  Still, I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about it. So I studied his wife’s latest Instalook posts. They’ve been a little vague lately.

  But now, being here with him, I realize I’m probably making something out of nothing. It’s like when you think about a red car and then before long red cars are all you see. I’m sure it’s like that with the flowers.

  “How about this—I’ll pick you up Friday evening. Bring a packed bag to work with you.”

  “Sounds like you have it all figured out,” I tell him, and there’s a whisper—an inkling. It’s nagging, eating at me. I realize I’ll have to cancel my dance lesson with his daughter. This is better.

  He winks. I can’t help but wonder if he’s done this before.

  I slip my foot into my shoe. “What will you tell your wife?” I blurt out. I need to know. Instantly, I regret asking. His expression shifts, and I see something there I haven’t seen before. There’s a sense of protection in his eyes. She’s off limits. That’s what it says.

  “As I said—you leave everything up to me,” he tells me, and so I do.

  He’s waiting for me out front Friday night as I lock up.

  “Ready?” he asks when I climb in the car. His expression is impassable.

  I nod. A wide grin spreads across my face. I can’t help it. My cheeks flush red. It’s been forever since I’ve taken a weekend off. Sure, it will mean going several days without groceries, and probably only paying half the light bill this month, but it will be worth it. Once we’re on the highway, I shift and lean over. I run my hand up Grant’s thigh. He turns to look at me. “Someone’s eager,” he says.

  “I haven’t seen you since Wednesday.”

  “I know,” he tells me, pursing his lips. “It’s been a busy week.”

  “We could pull over.”

  “No.” He looks over at me. “You’ll learn to wait,” he says, somewhat sternly. Then he smiles. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

  I think he’s joking, although I’m not entirely sure. I decide to trust him.

  “If you say so,” I say finally. I’m a bit wounded. Sometimes you have to say what you mean and mean what you say. He’s never rejected me before. I’m overreacting, I know. I’m showing my naiveté, my immaturity, by being upset over a little brush-off when he’s carved out an entire weekend to be with me.

  “This weekend is very important,” he offers, as though he knows what I’m thinking. “There’s a lot riding on it.”

  I tilt my head. He’s right. “Like what?”

  “Like whether or not we keep seeing each other.”

  “Oh,” I say. Jesus. I hadn’t expected that. My vision blurs.

  “I realize you think I’m blunt. And you’re right. But there’s something you should know about me, Isobel. I have very peculiar tastes.” His brow creeps toward his hairline. “I need someone I can trust.”

  “You don’t think you can trust me?”

  “I don’t give my trust away blindly.”

  “Oh,” I say. Grant Dunn seems to be incapable of lying. He doesn’t soften the blow, that’s for sure.

  “I’m a very particular man, Izzy. It's like jumping from a building without a net, flying trapeze absent the harness, and if I can’t trust you to take my life in your hands, then we can’t be lovers.”

  My curiosity is piqued. “What sort of peculiarities?”

  He smiles. “Oh, nothing too out there.” He reaches over and pats my knee. “You’ll see.”

  I chew at my bottom lip.

  He moves his hand to mine, places it on top and gives it a tight squeeze. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun.”

  We arrive at the cabin close to midnight. It’s remote, but he doesn’t have trouble finding it so I presume he knows the place well. “Are we expecting others?” I ask, standing in the doorway. When we enter, I’m surprised to see the lights are on. A fire is already going.

  “Nope,” he exclaims. “Just the two of us.”

  I nod, breathe a sigh of relief. I look around the living area. It’s a nice place. A little rustic, but charming.

  “I have a guy who maintains the place. Brad. He makes sure things are kept neat and orderly,” he tells me, his hands full of bags. He refuses to let me help. I study the outline of his shoulders as he sets them in the entry way. They’re strong shoulders, wide. Large enough that you have to stretch yourself to wrap your arms around them. The kind Josh had. “I don’t find arriving to a cold, dark cabin all that appealing. Do you?”

  I shake my head. He hands me one of the bags. “The shower is straight through there,” he points. “Put this on when you finish. I’ll get our things settled.”

  The bathroom has been remodeled recently. It seems a bit newer than the rest of the place. I set the bag on the counter and carefully remove the items. There are only two: a white corset and panties. I hold them up and check myself in the mirror. Then I check the tag. He’s gotten the size right. The tag says La Perla, and I can’t imagine how much this cost. Or rather, I can, and it makes my heart race.

  I shower, all the while thinking that I don’t really know how to put a corset on. I know I won’t look as good as Josie, or any of the women he sees on a daily basis for that matter. I consider how I might get out of it. He said there was a lot riding on this weekend, and I don’t want my flaws to be one of them.

  There’s a soft
knock at the door. “You need help in there?”

  “No,” I call out. My voice cracks. “I’m good.”

  I keep the water running; meanwhile I towel off and try to get a head start at making myself presentable. I shaved this morning, and sprung for a bikini wax yesterday (never again) but the cold has caused stubble to make a reappearance on my legs. I know Grant Dunn appreciates perfection. I decide to look it up and see if the internet could help me figure out the corset situation. Also, I need to have a look at Instalook. I need to know Josie’s okay. Or at least find a reason not to feel bad about what I’m doing. Sometimes feelings sneak up on a person. But then I realize I left my phone on the bar. I make do with my imagination. When I’ve squeezed and shifted and arranged myself into Grant’s gift, I glance up at myself in the mirror. I hardly recognize the reflection staring back at me. Running my fingers through my wet hair, I fan it out. Then I trace the smudged mascara under my eyes until it looks like someone else standing there. A better version of myself. It’s really quite amazing what expensive underwear can do for a girl.

  “Isobel,” Grant calls. “Come on. I can’t wait any longer…”

  It sounds strange to hear someone call me a name that isn’t mine. He never asked if Izzy was short for Isobel—he just assumed, and so I let him. Sometimes it’s better that way.

  “Coming,” I say, and I take one last glance at myself. I think of Josie when I flip off the light switch. Has he brought her here? Surely. But she’s never posted about it. That must mean it’s sacred. Lucky me. When I exit the bathroom, Josie Dunn slips from my mind. The cabin is lit by dozens and dozens of candles.

  “Wow,” Grant says. He crosses the room in three strides. “You look even better than I imagined.”

  He’s holding a glass of red, and I try to slide it from his hand.

  “Uh-uh,” he says. “None of this for you.”

  I furrow my brow.

  He takes a sip and then sets the glass aside. “I’d like to talk first, and I can’t have you falling asleep on me.”

  I smile. Wine does have that effect on me. I swear he thinks of everything.

  “What are we discussing?” I ask, with the tilt of my head. I’m nervous, so I flirt. He remains serious.

  “Our future.”

  I laugh, because I think he’s kidding. “Aren’t we getting a bit ahead of ourselves?”

  “One can never be too prepared or think too far into the future, Isobel.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Josie

  I wake up alone. It’s always a bit disconcerting to reach over to Grant’s side of the bed and find it empty. It’s not that it’s uncommon, given his profession, but a part of the agreement we have under the church’s guidelines is that a wife is to wake before her husband. Thankfully, for me, I’ve always been an early riser. Still, it’s a rule, and on the rare occasions I’ve broken it, it didn’t go unnoticed.

  In the haze of the space between consciousness and sleep, I remember that Grant is out of town. I relax into the bed. I haven’t felt this rested in ages, I think, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I prop myself up on my elbows and glance over at the clock on the wall. Whew. It’s light out, but it’s still early. I always loved the endless feel of Saturday mornings, when time is expansive, when the day is all stretched out before you as though it will never end.

  Grant has gone up to the cabin to do some work on it and meet with contractors. The cabin is his passion project, and I won’t lie, I was a bit relieved when he didn’t ask me to go. After the week I’ve had, it’s nice to have a weekend to myself.

  Of course, that isn’t the case this morning. I have a meeting with Mel. Tom’s new wife seems to be acclimating well, or at least Beth seems to think she is, but it’s my duty to check up on her weekly, nonetheless.

  I force myself out of bed pulling my robe tight. The house is quiet. James has gone to a debate team competition in Houston with the church. They like to show off the up and coming talent. But he seems to like it, and he’s good, like his father, so I let it be.

  Avery, I find, is still asleep. She’s been sleeping a lot the past few days, so I was bummed when the girl from the coffee shop called and canceled today’s dance lesson. No doubt, now she’ll want me to take her shopping. Either that or schlep her friends around. Ironically, all I want to do is sleep.

  Mel is speaking to me. I know because I can see her mouth moving, but all I hear is ringing in my ears. She’s holding the door in place, and she’s waving me in. All the while, I just stand there, hands at my sides. Frozen. “Josie?”

  I think she says my name once, twice, maybe three times. “Josie? Are you okay?”

  I see her glance over her shoulder. My eyes follow hers. No one is going to rescue you.

  My eyes shift as the dog comes barreling toward me. June loved that dog. I never did. I brace myself, knowing he’ll dirty my slacks. They’re new, and this outfit has gotten so many likes on Instalook that I can’t bear to have him ruin them.

  Thankfully, Mel catches him by the collar. I watch as she wrestles with the dog. It gives me an odd sense of satisfaction. Serves her right.

  “You had me worried,” she confesses, once things are under control—meaning, the housekeeper comes and takes possession of the dog. I don’t recognize the lady. June never wanted any staff.

  “I’m fine,” I assure her. “I’ve always loved this house.”

  She ushers me through the doorway. Her expression is relieved. She's transformed since the dinner party. “How lovely to see you.”

  “Likewise,” I tell her. I’m struck by how much she looks like June. This makes the words difficult to get out. All I see is my friend. But I know that isn’t possible. She’s dead.

  Mel shows me into June’s sitting room. “Please, sit,” she offers, fluffing her dress. She motions toward the table. There are biscuits and tea. The kind I used to tease June about. You must have been a Brit in another life, I’d tell her. Carbs are mostly forbidden on Beth’s diet plan, but for the sake of politeness can sometimes be forgiven. “Tom tells me you like tea.”

  “Yes,” I say to her, accepting the cup and saucer. June’s china.

  “So—how’ve you been?” I ask. I’m distracted, looking around, trying to mentally take inventory of what has changed and what hasn’t. She’s staring at me now, assessing me, her brow furrowed. I restate my question. “How are things?”

  “Good,” she says with a long sigh. She straightens her back. “Great—really.”

  I sip my tea.

  She narrows her gaze. “Shouldn’t we pray first?”

  Of course. How could I have forgotten this? My first mistake. She’s new. She’s trying to make an impression. She’ll want to do everything by the book.

  I half-laugh and smooth my hair. “Oh, right,” I tell her with a small wince. “I’m not used to leading. Forgive me.”

  She rubs her palms on her dress. She isn’t sure what to say.

  I hope this doesn't get back to Tom, because that means it will get back to Grant, and I can't have him thinking me incapable.

  “Why don't I lead?” she says, finally.

  I raise my brow. “That sounds perfect.” I place my cup and saucer back in its rightful place on the coffee table. She waits as I fold my hands and bow my head. An Austin Home and Garden magazine catches my eye. I want to pick it up, but nothing interrupts prayer. I know the backyard on the cover well. It’s Beth’s. But it’s the address label that catches my eye. It’s addressed to Mel, which seems odd given she hasn’t lived here that long.

  “Is something wrong?” she asks, shifting. I look up. “Would you prefer to lead?”

  I inhale deeply, and then I stretch my arms out. I get my bearings. “No,” I say, and one side of my mouth forms a smile. “It slipped my mind that Beth had the cover this month. I just realized I forgot to congratulate her.”

  She studies my shoes. Or the floor. It’s hard to tell. I can see that she’s taking my distraction personally
. She has a right to. I hate being here, in June’s house, with someone who isn’t June. I hate that I’m wasting my Saturday having tea with someone I don’t really care about. I don’t care how she’s getting on. Or explaining the rules. Or any of that. But I have to make myself. That’s the deal I made.

  She looks up and gives me a weak smile. The look robs me of my rage.

  “I’m sorry,” I offer. “I’m a bit distracted this morning. Teenagers. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without them.”

  “So you don’t mind if I lead us in prayer then?”

  I almost do a double-take. I smile instead. “No, of course not. This is your home, so it only makes sense,” I say, and the irritation resurfaces. It's not her home, it's June’s, and aside from her being in it, nothing has changed.

  She smooths her dress. I look on as she rubs her palms against her thighs. This is definitely getting back to my husband.

  She's wearing a long floral dress, which is a bit different than June would've worn, a bit tighter. “That's a pretty dress,” I say. I have to stop playing defense, stop making her work for small answers so that the conversation stays on the surface. That’s not why I came.

  “Thank you,” she says, blushing, and I realize she’s equally nervous.

  We pray. Or rather she prays, and I listen. It goes on and on, and I’m impressed by her thoroughness. I remember a time I cared that much. Well, not quite that much. But surely, I cared.

  “So tell me,” I say when she’s finished, and we’ve said our amens. “How do you like the neighborhood?”

  “It's great—” she offers, fanning out the skirt of her dress once again. “I really have no complaints.”

  “And how are the children?” I ask. I can't help myself, I have to know. “Tom's children, I mean.”

  “Oh,” she says, and she looks away briefly. I can see that she’s taken aback. I don’t think she expected me to pry. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “They're fine.”

  “I figured,” I tell her. “They’re great kids.”