“Yes, whatever,” his mother said. She sounded as if she had expected a real answer and was disappointed. “The Vincents are here.”
“Already?” Evan said, glancing at me.
“You could sound a little happier about it, Evan. We’ll have dinner in fifteen minutes. You can introduce her to the Vincents and then show her the apartment, if you like. I have a few other things to tell Martha before she begins to serve.”
“Will do, Mom,” Evan said, and either for my benefit or just as a joke, he saluted. He glanced at me, and I shook my head.
Evan’s father led us into the beautiful living room. There was a black-and-white marble bar with cushion seats. The Vincents were sitting there having cocktails.
“Hi, Evan,” Mr. Vincent said quickly.
His wife just smiled. Her eyes were all over me. I thought she wore twice as much makeup as Evan’s mother. Whoever had done the work on her nose and lips was probably in hiding. Her features had that exaggerated look that worked as a flashing billboard announcing, I had plastic surgery.
“Hi. This is Emmie Wilcox,” Evan said. “Mr. and Mrs. Vincent.”
“Hello,” I said.
“We heard you speak French,” Mr. Vincent said. “Were you born there?”
“No, but my mother is French and was brought up there,” I said.
“Do you get there often?” Mrs. Vincent asked. “Paris, perhaps?”
“Not for a long time,” I said. “We might go again soon.”
I didn’t know why I said that. It just seemed like something Mrs. Vincent expected to hear. My mother often talked about another trip t
o France, but Papa still hadn’t committed to any.
“I love shopping on the Champs-Èlysées,” Mrs. Vincent said.
“You love shopping anywhere,” Evan’s father told her, and Mr. Vincent laughed.
“Well, that’s what people do, especially in Paris. When in Rome, do as the Romans,” she said. “That’s a very pretty dress,” she told me. “Where did you get it?”
“Don’t tell her,” Mr. Vincent said quickly. “She’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Saks,” I replied.
She looked disappointed. “Oh. Well, they do have some nice things from time to time, but next time you look for something new, I have a great boutique that caters to junior fashions.”
“We have two daughters about your age,” Mr. Vincent said as a means of explanation.
“Oh, do they go to our school?” I asked Evan.
Before he could reply, Mrs. Vincent said, “No. They go to a very upscale private boarding school in Connecticut.”
“I’m going to show Emmie around before dinner,” Evan said quickly. He spoke with the desperation of someone who needed to escape.
Everyone smiled. Evan’s mother returned as we left.
“About ten minutes, Evan,” she said.
He nodded.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” Evan said when we were far enough away for no one to hear.
“Why?”