Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths #4)(113)
Ben comes around the car—looking every bit like a Ken doll in a sharp black pearl tux that he rented last minute—and offers me an arm. If we were here under different circumstances, I’d probably already be scouting out locations to drag him off to by his tie, he looks so appealing. “When did you see your mother last?” he asks, taking the steps in unison with me, slowly. Warily.
“Right after I married Jared. Number Four wanted a big mending-fences family brunch.”
“So, what, like . . .”
“A year and a half ago.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “And how’d that go?”
“Terrific. Annabelle told me I didn’t have what it took to keep Jared interested and he’d leave me.”
And now I think I know why.
Ben speaks to the man with the guest list while my eyes roam over the crowd of finely dressed people of all ages. He’s been doting on me since yesterday afternoon, while keeping my mind occupied and cracking stupid jokes to try and make me laugh. Odd, given we just put his dad in the ground. It should be the other way around.
We step into a buzz of music and conversation and laughter—both fake and genuine. The beautiful O’Hara staircase reaching the second floor is closed to guests and lined with a small orchestra of violinists, playing soft classical music while a photographer captures them. Servers in tuxes float through the crowd, balancing silver platters of appetizers and champagne with ease.
I can’t help but think that all the money that went into this party could have been better served going straight to the charity. This is Annabelle at her finest.
I never enjoyed these pretentious parties, preferring one of Jack’s summer backyard barbeques where I could show up in jeans and a T-shirt. Then again, the look on Ben’s face when I descended Wilma’s stairs in a dress that cost half the price of my Harley makes it worth it.
Ben stops a server with a hand on her elbow and his winning smile. “Excuse me, can you please tell us where Mrs. Donnelly is?” That’s Annabelle’s latest last name. It’s getting hard to keep track of them.
The young woman blushes as she looks up at him. “Entertaining in the conservatoire.”
Ben shoots a questioning look my way.
I respond with an eye roll and a quiet hiss of, “It’s a greenhouse with a piano in it.” I think I catch a smirk from the server as she continues on, but I can’t be quite sure.
We find our way to the “conservatoire”—an enormous glass room in the back of the house, overlooking an Olympic-sized pool. Though it’s minimally furnished on normal occasions, tonight it has been cleared of everything except a black grand piano and the stench of old money. That’s where I find Annabelle, amidst a small circle of supremely polished people. She looks as poised and radiant as always in a long, fitted royal-blue dress that pools around her ankles, her pale skin appearing all the more milky-white next to the vibrant color.
Ben offers my waist a little squeeze and prods me forward. I fight the urge to touch my hair—an understated but elegant side bun that Elsie did for me, showing off the black-cherry layer as I make my way forward.
Ian sees me first. He offers a smile, but it’s wary. I’m not stupid. To him, I’m the estranged daughter of his trophy wife who, if anyone bothered to do a bit of research, could probably cause some political embarrassment for him, especially around election time. God knows what she’s told him about me. At least my record is sealed.
Annabelle turns. With her tall frame, hourglass figure, and perfect features, she has always been a stunning woman. I can’t deny that she still is, though getting a better look at her—at the shape of her eyes, the lack of a single wrinkle or flaw, the very full br**sts—I’m betting she’s had plastic surgery since I saw her last.
Those cold azure eyes float over the length of me, of my gown, of my hair, of Ben next to me, and I see a flash of something—surprise? Triumph? Suspicion? “I didn’t think you were going to make it, Reese,” she says in a breathy voice, leaning forward to peck my cheek, much like I’d imagine a chicken pecks at a piece of corn. I mentally compare that to the kiss Wilma planted on me—warm and loving and so . . . motherly.
“I didn’t think I was going to either,” I admit. Up until yesterday, I had my mind made up.
And then I learned the whole story.
Coming here tonight to confront her may be considered poor timing by some. But I think it’s the perfect moment. She’ll be sober, for one thing. I can guarantee that her glass is straight Perrier. She won’t risk getting drunk with all these people here.
But mainly, she’ll be so concerned about how I’m going to react—in front of all these spectators—that she won’t have a chance to throw a fit.
Turning to Ben, Annabelle purrs, “Hello, I’m Annabelle Donnelly,” and holds her hand out limply as if she’s expecting him to kiss it.
“Ben Morris. It’s a pleasure,” he answers with a high-voltage dimpled smile as he smoothly accepts her hand. As much of a foot-in-mouth jackass as Ben can be, he seems to have a way of making a woman react. Even now, Annabelle’s eyes scan his body quickly before letting go, a demure smile on her extra-pouty lips. Plumper than I last remember.
“I need to talk to you,” I blurt out.
“Sure. Perhaps after the ball?”