Finding Isadora(10)

When he turned his attention to the Chair’s wife, I leaned toward Richard and murmured, “This is the head table.”

“So it seems.”

“Nice of your father to ask us to sit here.” I hoped that, somewhere in the huge room, the senior partner of Richard’s firm—seated at a less desirable table—was suitably impressed.

Richard tugged me closer, lips brushing my ear. “How did it go with you and Gabe?”

I tried not to flush. “Okay. He was polite.” Or at least he had been once he realized I didn’t plan to cheat on his son. “You should have warned me he was likely to be here.”

“Sorry. Guess I was in denial.”

“I wish the two of you had a better relationship.”

He shrugged. “I gave up on that when I was a kid.” The words were offhand, but his voice held an undertone of bitterness.

A burst of laughter drew my attention. It was the Chair’s wife, who was listening to Gabriel, looking utterly charmed. “He should’ve brought a date of his own,” I muttered, “rather than flirting with someone’s wife.”

Richard gave a surprised chuckle. “Believe it or not, he’s not flirting. It’s just his natural charisma. It works on men, too.”

Belatedly I realized that the Chair was also hanging on Gabriel’s words. He looped an arm around his wife’s shoulders as the three of them huddled close together.

The realization sank in that Gabriel truly hadn’t been flirting when he smiled at me earlier, he’d just been his usual charismatic self. Thank god I’d denied that my reaction was anything other than a smile.

“As for bringing a date,” Richard said, “he’s never been one to mix business with his personal life.”

“You’ve always said he spent so much time on his causes, he was rarely home.”

“Work’s his idea of fun.”

Richard might believe that, but I doubted that a man who exuded sexuality the way his father did was an all-work, no-play guy.

Determinedly not looking Gabriel’s way, I wondered if he would bother to attend our wedding. Personally, I’d be as happy if he didn’t show, and I imagined Richard’s mom and stepdad would feel the same way. But Richard would be hurt, as he’d been so often before.

“Time to be sociable,” he murmured, and a few minutes later he’d drawn us into a conversation with the Director of the Center and her husband. They turned out to be interesting, down-to-earth people and I relaxed, at least as much as I could in this formal setting, with Gabriel DeLuca sitting only a chair away.

Waiters, in uniforms that were a cheaper version of the male guests’ tuxes, brought fancy salads and a selection of rolls. I ate heartily, hoping the main course would be fish, but guessing meat was more likely. Sure enough, when my dinner plate arrived, it held chicken in a wild mushroom sauce, with rice pilaf and a selection of attractively presented vegetables. Richard whispered, “Sorry. Told you we could have phoned ahead and requested vegetarian for you.”

I hadn’t wanted to make a fuss and, truthfully, I think he’d been grateful. “No problem, the rice and veggies look good. I’ll have room for dessert.”

He gave my arm a warm squeeze. “Did you tell Jimmy Lee where you were going tonight?”

His voice was back at normal conversational volume and, without thinking, I responded the same way. “And stir him up? He doesn’t have much perspective about this kind of event.”

“What do you mean?”

I jumped, realizing the woman seated between me and Gabriel had asked the question. Her name was Althea Fitzsimmons, I remembered, though to me she was crow-woman. Her voice held an edge of belligerence. “What’s wrong with this kind of event?”

“Not a thing, Ms. Fitzsimmons.” Damn, I’d offended a Board member. “Everyone’s here to support a very worthwhile cause.”

“Iz’s father is a leftover hippie,” Richard said. “He believes in hugging trees rather than donating dollars to save them.”

“He’s a political activist,” I clarified. “He believes in direct, hands-on action. But it takes all kinds of different efforts, doesn’t it, to bring causes to the public’s attention and get them properly funded?”

“Hell, Isadora, don’t tell me your father’s Jimmy Lee Wheeler?” The words came from Gabriel.

Startled, I stared at him. But of course it wasn’t surprising an activist lawyer might have crossed paths with my father. “Sure is. You know him?”

“Oh, yeah, and he’s a hell-raiser. Haven’t met your mom—Grace Dean, right?” He paused, then when I nodded, went on. “The two of them have done a hell of a lot of good work.”

“Thanks.” His comments warmed my heart. Although I often wished my parents would grow up and act their age, I admired their intentions and respected what they’d accomplished.

“They’re never afraid to take a stand,” he said.

I smiled in acknowledgment. “They were Americans, attending university in the days when school was more about sit-ins and demonstrations than books and lectures. They brought that attitude along with them when they came to Canada.” It had been Vietnam War days and Jimmy Lee had been a draft dodger, a fact Gabriel would likely guess and approve of. “They’re rabble rousers, that’s for sure.”