One To Watch(86)

“I read about it on a very informative blog,” he answered, and Bea flushed with pride.

When the show was over, the kids and their families all crowded around for pizza and juice, and Sam introduced Bea to his many adoring former students and colleagues.

“It’s a good thing Sam found some ten-year-old girls to play ball with, because he cannot hold his own on the court,” one middle-aged teacher ribbed.

“Easy now, I’ve got some game,” Sam retorted.

“Oh yeah? What do you think, Bea? Does Sam have game?” The teacher winked in Bea’s direction, and she turned to Sam and grinned.

“I don’t know, Sam. Maybe you should show me this supposed game of yours.”

“You want to see my game?” Sam called out. “What do you guys think, should I show Bea I’ve got some game?”

The crowd cheered, and Bea thought he was going to go off and find a basketball, but she was absolutely shocked when he took her in his arms and kissed her instead. It wasn’t a quick peck either—it was a long, sexy kiss while he dipped Bea backward like they were old-time Hollywood stars and this was the grand finale. The crowd whooped and whistled, and Bea could feel herself blushing bright red, but she also reveled in the moment, how good it felt to kiss Sam.

“So, what do you think?” he asked softly as he lifted her to her feet.

“I concede it.” Bea kissed him again, gently. “You’ve got game.”

That night, Bea was meeting Sam’s family for dinner at their home in Short Hills. Though just twenty minutes away, the wealthy town was a far cry from the crowded, vibrant streets of downtown Newark. These avenues were wide and tree-lined, and the colossal houses were set so far back that Bea could barely make them out in the lingering daylight.

“Holy shit,” Bea gasped as they went through the gate and up the long driveway of Sam’s family’s house—it was a gorgeous whitewashed brick colonial with dark shutters and a copper roof that had faded to a deep, rich patina.

“You’re judging me a little less for crashing with my parents now, aren’t you?” Sam laughed as he met Bea on the porch.

Walking into the lavish home filled with sculpted ceilings, wood-paneled walls, generously proportioned furniture, and a staggering art collection, Bea was thankful she’d changed her clothes for dinner. Jeans were fine for a tour of an elementary school, but now Sam was wearing trim charcoal slacks and a dark silk sweater, and Bea was glad to look equally presentable in wide-cut raspberry pink Prabal Gurung trousers paired with a crisp red shirt.

“You look like Valentine’s Day.” Sam kissed Bea on the cheek.

“Does that mean you’re going to be mine?” Bea teased.

“I hope so.” Sam was all bravado as usual, but Bea couldn’t help but notice how full of anxious energy he seemed as he led her into the formal dining room, where his family was waiting.

Sam introduced Bea to his father, Steve, a vice president of a big Wall Street brokerage firm, and his mother, Claudette, who was the chief cardiac surgeon at Mountainside Hospital. His sisters, Zoe and Jessica, had joined as well. They were an imposing group: razor-sharp, impeccably dressed, each more accomplished than the next. Bea understood how living with these people could give you an inferiority complex—she felt a sudden rush of appreciation for her own family and their simple, unyielding support for one another.

Steve and Claudette employed a cook, who’d prepared a gorgeous spread of salmon roasted with oranges, asparagus, and scalloped potatoes. They ate at an antique Queen Anne table and drank Sancerre from balloon glasses made of crystal. Bea enjoyed it all as much as she possibly could while praying, quite fervently, that she wouldn’t spill.

“So, Bea, where were you at school?” Steve asked as he helped himself to another glass of wine.

“UCLA,” Bea answered. “I studied art history there and at the Sorbonne my junior year—Paris is still my favorite city.”

“You go back often?” Jessica asked.

“I do, for work.”

“Bea writes about fashion,” Sam said proudly.

“Really?” Claudette looked mildly impressed. “For one of the magazines?”

“No, I have my own site.”

“Very entrepreneurial of you,” Steve commended her. “You’ll have to lend Sam some of your industrious spirit.”

“Dad,” Sam objected, but Steve rolled on.

“Tell us, Bea, if you hadn’t made a career for yourself, do you think your parents would have supported you indefinitely? When do you think it’s right to shove a chick out of the nest?”

Bea looked to Sam for guidance, but his eyes were downcast, his expression stony.

“Come on, Dad,” Zoe cajoled her father. “Let’s have a nice dinner, okay?”

“I just have some skepticism—as does your mother—about what’s actually happening here. Bea seems like a competent woman with a thriving career, whereas our son has been unemployed for the better part of a year, has turned down the various positions and internships I’ve procured for him—”

“Because I don’t want to work on Wall Street.” Sam scowled.

“And his best idea for his future is to go on reality television.”

“I’m so thankful he did,” Bea interrupted, unable to stay silent any longer.