by Olivia Luck
Five minutes later, he returns, still glaring, though I know it’s not directed at me.
“Duty calls and I’ve got to run. Lunch has been taken care of. I’ll call you to finalize the details of the student dinner.” Oscar bends down and presses his lips to my cheek in a tender kiss. Warmth spreads through my body rapidly. “I’m sorry for running, Iris.” And then he’s gone, not giving me a moment to thank him for the meal or entrance to the museum or his company.
Somehow, I know he’s doing more than running to work; he’s sprinting away from any complications with me.
Skirting around the perimeter of the Scarlett ballroom, I plaster on a welcoming smile. Most of the three hundred Gratitude Dinner guests are filtering their way from the cocktail reception into the main hall to find their seats. Part of my job, as Violet calls it, is guest concierge. That means escorting guests to their table and keeping an eye on VIPs to ensure their drinks are full. The Gratitude Dinner gathers some of the city’s biggest philanthropists to review their year of giving. Since the guests pay allegiance to a wide breadth of causes, Violet lets her charity rule slide. This year, the dinner celebrates over twenty million dollars of contributions to local causes. Potential clients sit at every one of the twenty-five rectangle and square tables. My sister hustles like a professional, effortlessly gliding around the room as though putting together this event was as simple as straightening her hair. On the other hand, I imagine I look like an imposter, clunking around in pointy black heels and a sleek midnight shift dress, both on loan from my sister.
Restlessness plagues me. In contrast to volunteering at Mentoring Chicago, I get almost zero personal fulfillment from this job. The thing that makes this worthwhile for me is spending time with Violet and watching her success. With every meeting she conducts, party we execute, and guest we delight, pride bursts through me. My older sister is achieving her dreams, and I am genuinely thrilled for her. But with that pride comes an inevitable pang of jealousy. I empathize with Oscar’s need to be in the kitchen. The more I work among Chicago’s elites, the more I realize that I am meant to be in a smaller location and in flat, supportive shoes.
“Iris, is that you?”
I pause, mid-phony smile at a throng of guests entering the ballroom. That voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. The moment I place the elegant blonde, my stomach clenches. Elizabeth Alexander wears a flawless emerald evening gown. Her blond hair is swept into a chignon at the base of her head. Her hand rests delicately on the bicep of a handsome man with vibrant blue eyes and salt and pepper hair. As Oscar predicted, not an ounce of judgment exists in her warm expression. In fact, she looks pleased to see me.
“He—hello.” I clear my throat. “Hello, Elizabeth.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, I’m thrilled to run into you, but I didn’t know you were attending this dinner.”
Her kindness instantly sets me at ease. I find my faux expression melting into a true smile. “You’re right. Although I support these wonderful causes, I’m not attending as a guest. My sister, Violet Harper, owns Expertly Planned, the organizer of this event. I’m her right hand.”
Elizabeth listens carefully, nodding along. Her face lights with recognition when I mention Expertly Planned. “Oh, I’ve heard wonderful things about your agency. This dinner certainly matches your company’s reputation. Forgive me. I’m being rude! Let me introduce you to my husband, Jacob Alexander. Jacob, this is Iris Harper, a friend of our son’s.” There’s no veiled comment underneath her statement. With the same friendliness as his wife, Jacob extends his hand to mine in a warm shake.
“Pleasure to meet any friend of my Oscar’s. Unfortunately, he devotes the majority of his time to work. It’s nice to see someone broke through his business exterior.” Oscar’s father is equally as, if not more, friendly than his wife. Humor dances in his ice-blue eyes.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Alexander.”
“Please, call me Jacob.”
An awkward beat of silence passes between us. “Don’t let me keep you from finding your table. Which number are you? I’d be happy to direct you.”
Jacob angles his head toward the long rectangular “head” table in the center of the ballroom. In the event debrief, the clients told us the largest donors were sitting at that place. “I see Peter Stonewall in that direction, and we’re seated at the same table. We’ll find our way.”
Oscar’s mother moves rapidly, gracefully slipping her hand out of the crook of her husband’s elbow and moving toward me. A cloud of delicate, floral perfume swirls around me when she sweeps me into a quick hug. “You’re a lovely young woman,” she murmurs in a voice only I can hear. “Hopefully, we’ll see you again soon,” Elizabeth says this louder. They leave me standing there stunned.
The complimentary words surprise me. Then again, Oscar did tell me his mother was a wonderfully kind woman. This interaction confirms what he said, but something doesn’t fit with my picture of Oscar. He doesn’t seem to draw any of his features from his parents. Neither of his parents has angular features, dark, dark hair, deep-set eyes, and thick, curly hair. I remember how Oscar shuttered when I asked him if he had any siblings. Another piece to Oscar’s complex puzzle falls into my lap, but I can’t figure out where it fits in his story.
“Everything all right with the Alexanders?” Violet appears at my side—not a strand of her auburn hair out of place, no sheen of sweat glistens on her brow, and she walks with all the poise of a runway model, despite wearing four-inch heels for the past two hours.
Unwilling to discuss my connection to them, I stall. “It amazes me that your memory can retain all the guests’ names.”
Violet smirks. “Trust me, most of these people are faces to me, but the Alexanders are really well known. Jacob Alexander runs an investment bank, and his wife, Elizabeth, is a well-known philanthropist. She’s on the board of the Art Institute, and I’ve seen her name on many invitation lists. Not only are they obviously important, but they are known to be the nicest, most down-to-earth people you’d ever meet. And the icing on the cake is that they’re Oscar’s parents, though you wouldn’t know it because he wants to build his own success. I’d say he’s achieved that.”
The new bits of information turn through the cogs of my mind. Oscar did say his mother was on the board of the art museum, but it never occurred to me that she’s a well-known figure in elite Chicago society. “The rumors are true; the Alexanders aren’t the least bit pretentious. They were complimenting the event, and I directed them toward their table.” The omission of truth tastes bitter on my lips and turns to stone in the pit of my stomach. What is becoming of me? If this friendship with Oscar continues, there’s no way I’ll be able to hide it from sister. I don’t want to hide anything else from her.
Disgusted with myself for my seemingly endless fibs, I make an abrupt decision. Violet needs to know Oscar and I are friends. At this point, that is the complete truth. Only one side has romantic feelings, and I’m well on my way to permanently squashing them. I hope.
“Good.” Violet’s beam brightens a few watts. Her confidence is inspiring.
“Show’s about to start. We have time to hide in the kitchen and grab a bite. Hungry?”
“Starving,” I confirm. Stealthily, we move through the party so as not to disturb the guests and sneak into the kitchen. When we acquire an extra tray of passed hors-d'oeuvres from the cocktail hour, I decide there’s no time like the present. “Now that you mention Oscar Alexander, I realize there’s something I keep forgetting to tell you. In all my talk of Mentoring Chicago, I haven’t said that Oscar and I are instructing at the same school. In fact, our classrooms are right across the hall from each other.”
“What a small world. I had no idea he volunteered at Mentoring Chicago. Cameron’s wrong about him; the guy has a heart a mile wide. He needs to find the right woman to corral it.” Violet doesn’t direct her comment at me; still, it makes my heart swell painfully in my chest. I couldn’t
agree with her more, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’m not the woman Oscar wants.
I pluck a canapé off the tray and pop it into my mouth. The delicious morsel tastes like cardboard, and I have to fight to swallow it down my parched throat. “At the end of the semester, he invited my classroom to join his kids at one of his restaurants. They’re going to use the kitchen to make a dinner and dessert for each other.”
“See? Such a great guy. Oscar gives off an aloofness that does not match what lies beneath. He donates a ton of money to local charities but hides it through his business. The contributions come from his restaurant group. I don’t understand why he doesn’t see his immensely positive impact on the community.” Violet clucks in dismay. “It’s a shame that he’s closed off in that way.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Oscar hides behind the public persona of the untouchable chef. I don’t know why he isolates himself from other people. Does he have any genuine friends? I wonder if he’s lonely. Oh, listen to me going on about Oscar Alexander, a man I don’t know that well. If Cameron were here, he would tell me this is none of my business, and he’d be right,” Violet says with a self-deprecating eye roll. Under the garish lights of the kitchen, I wonder if my dizzying sadness shows.
“There’s nothing wrong with caring about a friend,” I finally say. “I hope he’s not isolating himself from his friends and family. Like you said, he comes from wonderful parents; I’d like to think they wouldn’t let him go.” We exchange a look of shared remorse, both reflecting on our own upbringing. “Anyway, you’re spot on with one thing. Oscar’s great with the students. A patient teacher and they really adore him.”
“Just like your students adore you,” Violet says loyally. Guilt threatens to swallow me whole. Her allegiance is unwavering, and I’m undeserving, hiding things from her.
“I’m working on it. After I had stopped being afraid of them, I made it work. They actually listen to me and laugh at my jokes,” I say in wonder. “I thought it was a hopeless case after the first day, but things are working out way better than I ever hoped they could.”
Violet glances over her shoulder at the hustle of the kitchen. “Wait one minute. I’m going to peek in the ballroom and make sure the speeches are going smoothly.” Violet pushes off from where she leans on the wall. A moment later, she’s back and grinning. “No issues. Back to our conversation. What do you think made the difference with your kids?”
I hesitate briefly. “Oscar gave me a pep talk after my first day,” I confess. “He witnessed how badly it went, and he gave me pointers—like treating the students as equals and setting firm rules. After five years of volunteering there, he really has this instructing thing down.”
My sister searches my expression as though she’s searching for my hidden secrets. I do my best to make my expression neutral, though I know masking my emotions isn’t one of my strengths. Violet decides to give me a pass. “How’s your star student, Michael?”
“And you say you don’t remember everyone’s name,” I tease gently. My sister chuckles around a bite of appetizer and waves for me to continue. “He’s the most dedicated, that’s for sure. He started coming early to talk recipes, and now, I think he likes hanging out with me.”
“Not surprised. You’re the best listener. It’s weird that I haven’t met your students. And I know I’m completely to blame for that because I’ve been at Cameron’s games or working. But it’s important to me to know what’s important to you. Do you think that Oscar would let me come to the dinner? I don’t need to eat or be a guest. Hey! I could be a waitress.” Violet perks up, eyes dancing with ideas.
“That would be wonderful. I’m sure Oscar won’t mind, but I’ll ask him when we finally nail down the details.” Gratefulness rushes through me for my sister’s devotion. “I am the luckiest to have you as my sister.”
Violet’s features go soft. “Our parents got one thing right.”
“What’s that?”
“Us, of course.”
As it’s become customary, Michael arrives for the baking class thirty minutes early. Unlike the other times, though, he wanders into the room uncertainly. I look up from where I’m sorting recipe cards and smile at his apprehensiveness. “Hey, Michael.”
“Hey, Iris.” He tosses his backpack onto one of the desks and stands opposite the island from me. Restlessness makes him fiddle with the items I laid out on the countertop. Usually, he jumps in to assist me. Not today.
“What’s eating you?” Deliberately, I use a string of words that he’s most likely not familiar with. I’m rewarded with a hint of a smile.
“Iris, no offense, but Amber’s right; you say the weirdest stuff sometimes.”
Unashamedly, I grin at him. “No offense taken. What I mean is it looks like something is bothering you. Can I help?”
Hesitantly, he twirls a pen gripped in his hand. “Well, I kinda wanted to ask you a favor.”
“Michael,” I say gently. His eyes hesitantly flicker to me. “If it’s in my power to say yes, consider it done.”
Appreciativeness transforms his features, making him more relaxed. Still, when he speaks, the words come out in a rush. “There’s a baking competition next year for teenagers. To win, the recipe has to be completely original, and you can’t get help from nobody. So I’m not asking you to make a recipe for me or anything like that, but I wanted you to come and watch.”
Happiness courses through me. Trust is the greatest gift Michael could give me. Tears sting at the back of my eyes, and I blink them away hard. “I’m honored, Michael, that you would invite me. Of course, I’ll be there. It would be my pleasure to watch you compete. When is it?”
Michael beams at me, almost hopping up and down with excitement. “April tenth. It’s a Saturday afternoon. I’ve already started thinking of ideas. I might make a chocolate layer cake and do the icing all funky like you taught us on those cupcakes. Or maybe I’ll bake pies. There are a lot of choices.”
His exuberance is contagious, and I find myself listing off things he could make. “A strawberry shortcake or a coconut cake. And that’s just cakes. You could try a zillion things. This is going to be a wonderful opportunity, Michael. I’m proud of you for entering. And—and thank you for inviting me. It’s an honor.”
The gratitude makes Michael uncomfortable, and he launches himself around the classroom, chattering about the competition and dividing ingredients between the two kitchens.
“Iris.” Both Michael and I turn to the deep voice coming from the doorway. Oscar leans against the frame, observing our teamwork with a dispassionate gaze. Most of the time, I find it impossible to know what he’s thinking.
“Hey, Oscar. How are you?”
“Fine,” he says shortly, “and you?”
Casting a glance at Michael, I respond cheerfully. “Wonderful. What can I do for you?”
That’s when I notice the circles under his eyes, and the thick strands of his dark hair that curl around his forehead. Exhaustion makes his shoulders sag. Gosh, he’s wearing thin. I want to ask if he needs anything, to show my support, but I refrain. Oscar is too proud to confess to needing aid, and besides, I wouldn’t ask him a personal question with Michael in the audience.
“I meant to call you to settle things with our dinner, but work has been . . . challenging.” Weariness hangs on each word. “And I don’t have time tonight. Here’s the quick and dirty, and we’ll flesh out timing and so forth later. It will be after our course ends for the semester. Plan for the first Sunday in January and tell your students they can bring one guest.”
“Sounds perfect, Oscar. Thank you again for including us. We’re really grateful.”
Our eyes connect, and my heart rate takes off, thumping urgently. “I’m sorry, Iris.”
What is this apology really about? Visible unhappiness washes over his features, and I have the strongest urge to close the distance between us, pull him into my arms, and soothe whatever worries he has.
Instead, I don’t break eye contact and keep my voice soft. “No worries. Take all the time you need.”
Oscar nods sharply, says good-bye, and leaves for his own classroom. Blood races through my veins, pounding in my ears. I’m in an Oscar Alexander vacuum, the pull almost impossible to ward off.
“That was weird,” Michael comments, breaking me out of my dizzy contemplation.
A brittle, unnatural laugh bursts from my chest. I don’t bother denying the weirdness. “You got that right.”
“He looks at you in a total obsessed way.”
I shoot a sharp look at Michael. “What are you talking about?”
But there’s no time for him to answer because London and Amber storm into the room, shouting their greetings. The hopeful side of me wants to hang on Michael’s words, but then I remember Oscar’s heartfelt apology. It was an apology for what he’s not prepared to give.
With stung pride and a mournful heart, it’s nearly impossible to smile at my kids, but within a few minutes, they successfully distract me. For the time being.
Oscar calling.
When the phone began to buzz with vibration, I could hardly contain my confusion. Thanksgiving came and went with no contact from Oscar, other than a passing greeting during the Mentoring Chicago sessions. It’s the second week in December, and I don’t have the full details to share with my students for the night at Mariposa. Time’s getting tight because next week will be the last session with my students. I’m depressed at the notion of saying good-bye to the teenagers who have wormed their way into my heart. Mostly likely, I won’t see any of them again unless they choose to visit.
“Hello,” I say tentatively.
“Hello, Iris.” His voice sends delicious tingles all over my body.
