Sadly, this wasn’t my first fashion disaster. The truly sad part was that I had no excuse for my lack of dress sense. My mother routinely showed up in the local society pages as a shining example of the well-bred and well-dressed. My sister had paid her way through law school by modeling. Even my brothers had both made the annual “best-dressed bachelor” lists before their marriages disqualified them. It didn’t matter. My entire family could have accompanied me to that store and unanimously told me—yet again—that yellow was the worst possible color for anyone with dark hair and a dark complexion, and I’d still have walked out with that dress, blinded by my sun-bright delusions.
At least I hadn’t spilled anything on it. I paused mid-stride and looked down at myself. Nope, nothing spilled yet. As long as I stuck to white wine and sauce-free food, I’d be fine.
I picked up a plate and surveyed the table. There was a roast duck centerpiece, surrounded by poached salmon, marinated prawns on ice, chocolate-covered strawberries …
I wasn’t hungry, but there’s always room for chocolate-covered strawberries. As I reached for one, my vision clouded.
I tried to force the vision back, concentrate on the present, the buffet table, the smell of perfume circling the room, the soft jazz notes floating past, focus on that, keep myself grounded in the—
Everything went dark. Images, smells, and sounds flickered past, hard and fast, like physical blows. A forest—the shriek of an owl—the loamy smell of wet earth—the thunder of running paws—a flash of black fur—a snarl—teeth flashing—the sharp taste of—
I ricocheted from my vision so fast I had to grab the edge of the table to steady myself. I swallowed and tasted blood, as if I’d bitten my tongue, but I felt nothing.
A deep breath. I opened my eyes. There, in the center of the table, wasn’t a roast duck but a newly dead one, ripped apart, bloodied feathers scattered over the ice and prawns and poached salmon, steaming entrails spilling out on the white tablecloth.
I wheeled, smacked into a man behind me, and knocked the plate from his hands. I dove to grab it, but my charm bracelet snagged on his sleeve and I nearly yanked him down with me. The plate hit the floor, shards of glass flying in every direction.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said.
A soft chuckle. “Quite all right. I’m better off without the added cholesterol. My physician will thank you.”
I fumbled to extricate his sleeve from my bracelet. He reached down, hand brushing mine, and, with a deft twist, set us free.
As he did, I got my first glimpse of him, and inwardly groaned. If I had to make a fool of myself, of course it would be in front of someone like this, who looked as if he’d never made a fool of himself in his life. Tall, dark, and handsome, he was elegance personified, marred only by a hawkish cast to his face. Every response to my stammered apologies was witty and charming. Every move as we disentangled was fluid and graceful. The kind of guy you expected to speak with a crisp British accent and order his martinis shaken, not stirred.
As a bevy of serving staff rushed in to clean up, I apologized one last time, and he smiled, his last reassurance as sincere as his first, but his gaze had grown distant, as if he’d mentally already moved on and in five minutes would forget me altogether—which, under the circumstances, I didn’t mind at all.
As I walked back to Douglas, the working Big Ben replica clock in the middle of the room chimed the hour. Ten o’clock? Already? No, that made sense—with Douglas being so late for dinner, we hadn’t arrived at the gala until past nine.
I hurried over to him. “There’s a—”
He cut me short with a discreet nod toward my bodice.
“You have a spot,” he whispered.
I looked down to see a dime-size blob of marinara sauce on my left breast. Fallout from the buffet table debacle. Naturally. If food flew, I’d catch some, and in the worst possible place.
I thanked him, and tried to blot it with my napkin. It grew from a dime to a quarter. I stretched my purse strap to cover it.
“I was going to say there’s a special behind-the-scenes tour of the new exhibit starting now,” I said. “I’d love to see it, and it would be a great way to meet people, mingle …” And save me from another two hours of your corporate war stories.
“Speaking of mingling, did you see who’s here?” He directed my attention to a group of middle-aged couples wedged between a bronze urn and a terra-cotta bull. “Robert Baird,” he whispered reverently.
He paused, as if waiting for me to drop and touch my forehead to the floor.
“CEO of Baird Enterprises?” he said.
“Oh, well, if you know him, I guess we could—”
“I don’t, but his wife and your mother both serve on the Ryerson Foundation board, so …”
“You thought I could introduce you.”
“You would? Thanks, Hope. You’re such a gem.”
“Sure, right after the tour—”
Too late. He was already heading for the Bairds. I sighed, adjusted my purse strap, and followed.
TWO
Thirty minutes later, the tour was over, the attendees were returning gushing over the new exhibit … and I was still stuck with Douglas and the Bairds.
I began to wonder whether he’d notice if I left. Maybe I could slip away, conduct a little self-guided tour …
Douglas put his arm around my waist and leaned into me, as if to take some of the weight off his feet. I bit back a growl of frustration, fixed on my best “Gosh, this is all so interesting” smile, and did what I’m sure every other significant other in the group had done an hour ago … turned off and tuned out.
While every other partner’s mind slid to mundanities—like juggling the children’s schedules, planning next weekend’s dinner party, contemplating a report for work—mine went straight to the dark realm of human suffering. I can’t help it. The moment I let my mind wander, it turns into a dedicated chaos receiver, picking up every nearby trouble frequency.
Unlike the buffet table vision, these weren’t mental blackouts. They were like semi-dozing, that state right before sleep where you’re still conscious but the dreamworld starts to encroach on reality. The first thing I saw was a woman sitting at Mrs. Baird’s feet, her legs pulled up under her party dress, her makeup running, shoulders heaving with silent sobs.
As the apparition vanished, I felt my gaze slide to the left, and I knew somewhere down a hall I’d find a woman, huddled and sobbing in some quiet place. Maybe someone had called with bad news, or maybe she’d seen her husband’s hand snake onto another woman’s thigh. I never knew the causes, only the outcomes.
“Tonight,” a man’s voice hissed at my ear. “He had to do it tonight, while the offices are empty.”
I didn’t bother looking beside me, instead let my subconscious draw my attention across the room to two men near the door. One was shaking his head, the other’s face was taut as he talked quickly.
The voices faded, and others took their place—angry words, accusations, whimpers, sobs, a Babel of voices joined in the common tongue of chaos. Images flashed, superimposed on reality, burning themselves onto my retinas, most meaningless out of context. It didn’t matter. I knew the context: chaos, like the voices. An unending parade of negative chaos in every conceivable form, from grief to rage to sorrow to jealousy to hate. I saw, heard, felt, experienced it all.