Holiday for HIre(19)
Then again, before last week, she wouldn’t have thought she’d be caught in public doing anything untoward. Astor & Black was clearly prized for their discretion as much as their suits. Hopefully Mr. Jacobson was equally discrete .
“And who is this?” Parker asked, tossing her shoulders back to best display the bosom everyone in Boston knew she’d received as a push present after having her son .
“Ian Brooks,” Jane said. “My…well. We’re in a relationship.” She’d rehearsed this, introducing him as her boyfriend. Why did it feel so awkward to say it now? It should feel more natural since they’d slept together…since they’d taken a turn for the romantic .
Except, had they really ?
Everything was just so confusing, but here he was holding up a bottle of chilled white like an utter gentleman. “Ladies, may I open a bottle for you ?”
Jane felt herself relax. His manners were impeccable. She had nothing to worry about as far as his performance was concerned .
Then she caught a glimpse of the label .
Oh no . No one, no one was drinking chardonnay from this year at her party. That wasn’t even wine, it was grape juice! These ladies hadn’t saved up their extra calories all month to be served anything less than ten-year old Italians .
“You may not,” she told him, just as Parker said yes please. He winked .
“It’s no trouble, really .”
Well, too late to do anything about it now. Jane reluctantly pointed him to a wine key, wondering how exactly she would pass off this faux pas when someone inevitably noticed .
“Check this out,” he said, and Jane actually flinched as he screwed the corkscrew into the foil without removing it, then popped the cork out through the resulting ragged edges. Thank goodness at least the label faced away, so Parker had yet to notice the swill she was about to be served .
“I didn’t know you could do that!” Parker said .
Neither did I , Jane thought grimly. And never hoped to know, either. How déclassé .
“You can, and it saves you a lot of trouble. Ever cut your thumb on the little knife? Or worse, the foil? Say farewell to those bad boys .”
Parker was clearly delighted. So delighted, luckily, that she appeared to be drinking the wine without a peep as to its origin. “Well, typically I don’t open bottles of wine myself. Can I tell you a little secret? I actually really just love a good margarita,” she confided as the buzzer rang again .
Great. The person she wanted to see least was here first, drinking what barely passed as wine, and now everyone was arriving. Jane still didn’t even have any mascara on, and she wasn’t about to slip away now .
“Hello, Olivia, Susan. Oh, is that Tinsley coming up the walk? Tinsley! Merry Christmas!” she called. “Drinks will be served in the kitchen, as usual, I just need to uncork the bubbles.” Ideally, the promise of champagne would keep them all well away from the wine .
And had she really heard Parker Winthrop admitting to a secret love of margaritas? She was shocked anyone of their class would say such a thing, but particularly Miss Prada herself. Wonders would never cease, it seemed .
Truly, margaritas were best left to sororities and Cancun resorts .
Once the drinks—the proper Kir Royale drinks—were in hand, Jane felt better. This was how things were supposed to be going. The amount of scrutiny on Ian was just fine—a healthy curiosity tempered by good-enough manners so as to never appear intrusive .
“Janie!” She always cringed when Susan called her that, but one did not correct Susan Tagliatelle. “I’m telling you, you have utterly outdone yourself this time around. This is by far my favorite décor reveal you’ve hosted. To tell the truth, things had been starting to look a bit stale .”
“So stale,” Parker agreed .
“I have been bored for the past three years,” Tinsley declared .
“Well, I have Ian to thank for the shake-up,” Jane said brightly. Stale? Absolutely not. These women weren’t big Christmas fans, was all. They were more New Year’s people—glitzy, social, and only sparkly on the surface. Any true Christmas devotee understood the value of tradition in a holiday .
“It was my pleasure,” his deep voice cut through her thoughts, “I’ve never been afraid of a little hard work. Really, hanging lights isn’t any harder than laying bricks. Jane has a great eye for this sort of thing .”
He beamed at her, as though he hadn’t just made a reference to the kind of grunt work a well-brought up Boston boy would never have had to do. Why, oh why, hadn’t he made a sailing reference instead? Now that was work a rich man could be proud of doing .
“Ian’s parents were big on building character in the boys,” she said, swallowing her annoyance. They would discuss this later, certainly .
Although, as it turned out, they had plenty more to discuss later. For example, tucking one’s napkin into one’s shirt collar was acceptable at a crab boil—not at a lobster risotto. Perhaps the Irish did not eat risottos, Jane was not certain, but really, he could take a cue from the rest of the table, each guest placing their own napkins into their laps .
Jane was able to whisk the napkin away and down, but she wasn’t altogether certain it had gone unnoticed .
Luckily, the ceremonial lighting went perfectly, and as always, the women pretended to be horrified by the amount of carbs on the dessert table while simultaneously inhaling all of them .