Dolly All the Time(25)

“Are you all right?” he asks me. I can’t worry the ends of my hair, so my right leg is bouncing.

“Yes, fine.”

He puts his earbuds in and makes a call to someone about a problem in Dallas.

Honestly, with this level of warmth, I can see why Audrey may have sought solace elsewhere. When Stewart Whitfield is in work mode, which seems like all the time, he cannot be distracted. It should be clear that I could use a few words of affirmation. I need confidence to walk into a swarm of millionaires and try to make small talk that will be so on point that they will all believe I am the new chosen Whitfield woman. I really wish I understood what Bitcoin is. I’m not looking for a full-out pep talk, but a compliment would be nice. I’m in a magic green dress. There’s a golden dahlia around my neck to match my handbag and shoes. Notice my gold shoes, Stewart.

“Can you at least brief me?” I ask when he’s off his call. “Like about what I’m walking into?”

“It’s their annual cancer fundraiser. I’m being honored.”

“Why?”

“Because I gave a lot of money.”

“Ah.”

“We’ll be sitting with the head of the charity and some old friends of my parents’. All pretty low-key.”

I nod at the window.

“Dolly. You can’t screw this up. We met on bikes, you’re in a beautiful dress. Simple.”

I grab it. “You like my dress?”

“Of course, it’s…” He raises both of his hands to suggest wow.

“Okay. Thank you. You just didn’t say.” I turn back to the window.

“We have a business arrangement. And if I told one of my employees she looked”—he stops and struggles to find a word. “How you look,” he says finally. “I would be sued.” He gives me a matter-of-fact look, but I swear his eyes linger for a nanosecond on my bare shoulder and then on my chest. “But you’re welcome.”

I raise my hand to where my hair meets my chin. I refuse to ask for another compliment.

“Actually,” I say. “I recall a clause about touching being allowed if it’s to save my life? In that spirit, I think a compliment when I’m about to walk into a party and have a full-on heart attack is warranted.”

He laughs, and even that laugh is dashing. It’s like his tuxedo has doused him in dashing potion. “I accept your interpretation there. So, yes, you are wearing everything very well.”

“I am wearing everything very well. That is a top ten worst compliment of my life,” I say, just as we’re pulling up to the valet. “And the guy who asked me to my senior prom led with ‘I already asked Vicky Walsh and she said no, so you’re next.’?”

Stewart’s laughing as he steps out of the car and extends his hand to me, outsizing his own dashingness. He places his hand on my elbow as we walk up the stairs and into the hotel. The perfume of flowers hits me immediately. People are milling around, sipping their cocktails, and somehow not craning their necks to see the canopy of flowers above us. Yellow roses, daisies, and sunflowers are the only ones I can name, but the ceiling is covered with a sheet of every possible yellow flower. I want to pull out my phone and take a photo for Naomi. I want to take a selfie so I can remember my celery-green dress under it.

“Stewart, hello,” a gray-haired man says. Stewart extends a hand to him, and I notice his cuff links for the first time, gold acorns, of course.

“Paul,” Stewart says. “This is Dolly Brick.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Paul says. “You are absolutely stunning in that dress.”

“Thank you,” I say, and raise my eyes to Stewart. That’s what you were supposed to say, my eyes tell him. He rolls his eyes the tiniest bit.

A waiter comes by with a tray of champagne flutes and we each take one. Stewart and Paul are talking about an industrial property that’s for sale along the Providence waterfront, and I’m half listening and half clocking the women around me. They’re all in long dresses, many of them brightly colored florals. It’s all so joyful and whimsical. Black tie for the men, and rainbow sorbet for the women.

Everyone wants to talk to Stewart, and he is charming. His demeanor is welcoming but regal. He knows everyone’s name and introduces me immediately, alternating between keeping a hand on my elbow and resting it stiffly on the small of my back. It’s possessive in a showy way, but that’s the whole point.

“And what do you do, Dolly?” asks a woman who’s name I’ve already forgotten.

“I teach kindergarten in Boston.”

“Ah,” she says, resting her hand on the golf ball–sized emerald around her neck. “You two are like Charles and Diana!”

It’s a grim comparison to say the least. “Well, sort of. Except he cheated and she’s dead,” I say, and look up at Stewart, who winces a bit. I could have just said nothing. Nothing was the thing to say. I feel a little blush creep up my neck.

“Let’s try not to go down that path, honey,” he says, wrapping a tight arm around my shoulders. I don’t think I can do honey.

“How did you two meet?” she asks, and I know this one! I tell her the tale of our morning bike rides and Stewart’s gallant rescue.

“That’s sweet. Which park?” she asks, and I immediately forget the name of every park in Boston. It’s as if all park-related data has been swept from my mind.