Camilla cut her off with a wave of a hand. “I’m sure Soline doesn’t want to spend the evening talking shop, Hilly. But perhaps you and Vicky could speak to her about the art council. I need to get back to manning the door, and Aurora needs to circulate with her guests. Be sure to sample the hors d’oeuvres and let me know what you think about using Aurora’s caterer for New Year’s Eve. She’s fabulous.”
Rory ran her eyes around the room, surprised at how quickly it was filling up. She’d been worried that no one would come. Now she wondered if there would be enough wine. But it was good to see so many familiar faces. Kelly and Doug Glennon were just arriving; Daniel Ballantine and a pretty blonde she assumed was his wife were browsing the food table; and Brian, who had traded his contractor’s clothes for neatly pressed khakis and a brown tweed jacket, was sipping a beer and chatting with a couple she recognized as friends of her mother.
She felt herself relax as she began to circulate. She was thrilled to see guests chatting with the artists, discussing media, technique, and sources of inspiration.
At some point, her mother had pressed a glass of chardonnay into her hand, and then later, she had grabbed another. A mistake, she now realized. The evening’s excitement, coupled with a week of little or no sleep, seemed to hit her all at once, and she suddenly felt herself winding down. Camilla must have realized it, too, because she appeared with a plate of hors d’oeuvres, suggesting it might be time to eat something.
She felt better after a little food. And even better after selling one of her pieces to a local surgeon and her husband. By the time the last guest left at ten thirty, they had sold a total of four pieces, booked two commissions, and had a promising lead for Kendra Paterson’s Crest. All in all, a successful night. And now that it was over, she was going to crawl into bed and sleep like the dead.
She looked up to see her mother wandering toward her with two glasses of wine. “They’re breaking down the bar, so I figured I’d better grab one for each of us. Soline went up to your office about an hour ago. Tonight was a lot, but I think she did well. I offered to run her home around nine and come back, but she was determined to stay. Here.” She pressed one of the glasses into Rory’s hand. “I thought we’d round off the evening with a toast.”
Rory eyed the glass warily. “I’m not sure I should. I’m dead on my feet, and I have to drive home.”
“Just a toast. We didn’t get a chance before.”
“All right. But just a sip.”
Camilla raised her glass, waiting until Rory followed suit. “To the young woman I’m lucky enough to call my daughter. I haven’t always been particularly good at letting you know how proud I am of you or of trusting you to know what’s right for you, and I’m sorry for that. I am proud. Not just tonight but always, and I promise to do better in the future.”
“Thank you,” Rory murmured, moved by her mother’s unexpected declaration. After a sip, she lifted her glass again. “And now it’s my turn. To the woman who taught me what grace under fire looks like. You were wonderful tonight, keeping your eye on everything, including me. I’m not sure I could have gotten through it without you.” She cleared her throat, dismayed to find herself choking up. “I haven’t always given you credit for how much you do—and for how well you do it, and I promise to do better too.”
Camilla lowered her lashes as they touched glasses. “You’re going to make me cry.”
“You started it,” Rory shot back before taking her obligatory sip.
“Fair enough. I’m going to the kitchen now to see if there are any of those little crostini left; then I’m going upstairs to find Soline so I can go home and soak my feet.” She paused, pointing to her new boots. “These heels are going to take some getting used to.”
Rory couldn’t help smiling as she watched her mother head for the kitchen. It had been a night of surprises, starting with a pair of high-heeled boots and ending with a moment of honesty and mutual respect she couldn’t have imagined just a few weeks ago. It was the perfect ending to a nearly perfect night, but she had to admit, she was glad it was over.
She took one last turn around the room, on the lookout for plates or glasses the caterers might have missed, and collected stray cocktail napkins. She had just bent down to pick up a rumpled brochure when she heard the entry chime. Apparently, no one had thought to lock the front door.
She straightened, reaching for a polite smile. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid . . . Oh my god.”