Dolly All the Time(27)
“This is how you hold hands?” Poor Audrey.
“What?” he asks, and then stops to introduce me to someone.
We continue to make our way through the crowd. “So we’re sitting with Jennifer, your best friend, and some people from the hospital. I have to give a quick speech before we eat.”
I stop again. “A speech? Why aren’t your hands sweaty?” I turn his hand over in mine and inspect it for evidence of nerves. “Do you have notecards? Do you want to practice on me?” Just the thought of it is making me queasy.
I look up, and he’s giving me a full smile, dimple on display. I don’t remember his eyes ever looking this playful. “I think we just found something I know how to do that you don’t,” he says.
I still have both of my hands around his. “You’re a lot less scary-looking when you smile.”
“That’s why I don’t smile,” he says.
The tables are dressed in yellow with white lace overlays. There’s an endive salad waiting at each place with individual silver pitchers of dressing, like tiny gravy boats. I sit next to Stewart and introduce myself to the man to my left, who passes me a basket of hot French bread. I take a piece and breathe in the steam. The butter is disappointingly not shaped like seashells, but it’s soft in its little butter pod and it melts like liquid gold on contact. I turn to Stewart and smile with a full mouth.
The man next to me is named Howard, and he talks a lot about Nantucket while he butters his bread and then salts it. I tell him that I’ve always wanted to see Nantucket, but what I’m really thinking is that I’d love to go back in time so I could have salted my bread too.
Jen kicks off the program and says a lot of nice things about Stewart. “Not only is he a brilliant business leader and a generous philanthropist, but Stewart Whitfield is also generous with his time. Anyone can write a check, and I hope you all do tonight.” She pauses for chuckles. “But Stewart also comes to the hospital, engages with the children, and seeks out specific unmet needs.” The screen behind her switches from the hospital’s logo to a photo of Stewart sitting on the floor in the hospital’s playroom with two little girls. The crowd lets out a unified “Aww.” He’s in dress pants and a black sweater, and he’s not aware of the camera. I can tell because he’s making a goofy face at the Barbie he’s holding. “The children adore him, and so do we. Please join me in welcoming Stewart Whitfield.”
He rises from his chair and places a hand on my bare shoulder. Not a Tin Man hand, but warm like a caress. It’s unfamiliar being touched like this, and I can’t help but lean my head toward it. He walks up to the podium like he’s got all day to get there and addresses the crowd. “Thank you, Jennifer. And thank you for honoring me in this way tonight.” He turns around and looks at the giant photo again. “As I recall, Barbie was giving me a bit of a hard time that day.” Everyone laughs. “As many of you know, pediatric cancer is an important cause to my family and me. It was a battle my sister fought and won with the help of brilliant doctors like these. And it’s critical that research continues and that the care she received is available to all families.”
I look around the room as he goes on. Is this something everyone knows? Everyone in town knows everything about the Whitfields, and I have never heard any mention of Busy having cancer as a child.
“Sometimes when I’m with my sister now, she seems almost hyper-alive,” he says. “As if what she went through as a child made her commit to sucking the last bit of joy out of each day. It’s out of gratitude for that joy that I am delighted to support this organization.”
And now I know what Busy’s laughing about all the time. She’s beat the devil.
Everyone is on their feet as he makes his way back to the table. I try to stand but catch my heel on the hem of my dress and sit back down. When Stewart is seated and all eyes are still on him, he takes the opportunity to lean in and graze his cheek against mine, like he’s whispering to me. I feel that same fizziness in my chest, but now it lingers and wanders down my body. I am entirely unprepared to be this close, even though it’s the whole point of the night. His skin is smooth and warm as it slides over mine. I hear him take in a little breath.
He pulls away and meets my eyes. Another smile.
“You sniffed me,” I say.
“I did,” he says, and turns back to the table.
I hold my ice water to my face to cool my blush just as the waiter comes to ask if I’d prefer filet mignon or sea bass. I can get one for free, so I choose the other. It’s served with little snap peas and a leek purée. Dessert is flourless chocolate torte with crème anglaise. I know this because Stewart tells me. It just looks like flat chocolate cake and white sauce. It’s a little dry. As we sip our coffee there’s a fundraising game of some sort. Jennifer stands at the podium and asks who will give twenty-five thousand dollars. I expect everyone to laugh at her joke, but I feel Stewart’s hand raise from behind my chair, like it’s nothing. She steps down to fifteen thousand and a few hands go up. Ten, then five. I think of my mother as I watch the ease of it, and I wonder if the best part of having all that money is being able to eat cake while you give it away.
We’re quiet on the ride back, each looking out separate windows.
“Thank you for tonight,” he says after a while. “I think it went well.”