Love by Association

She chatted some. But mostly she listened. And embarrassed herself with her seemingly obsessive need to keep an eye on Colin. Her only consolation there being that he was embarrassing himself, as well. Anytime she looked for him, looked at him, he was looking right back at her.

“It seems you’ve got his attention, but good.” A woman in her mid-forties appeared at Chantel’s left, reaching for the sip of wine the vintner poured as she approached his station. Having already swirled, smelled, sipped and spit, Chantel had been about to move on.

“Excuse me?” she said instead, softening the words with a smile. She’d like to think it was the generously fruity red blend that was bringing out the wildness in her. She’d have had to swallow it to even be able to pretend to believe that one.

“Colin,” the woman said, sniffing, sipping and swallowing the wine in her glass. “I’ve known him his entire life, and I’ve never seen him as interested in anyone as he is in you...”

Heart aflutter—because she was getting too much into the Johnson part, she assured herself—Chantel chuckled. “I’m sure you’re imagining things.”

“I’m equally certain that I’m not.” The woman was smiling, too, in a friendly way. As Chantel moved away from the vintner’s table, hoping to leave the idea of luscious flavors gliding across her palate like silk behind her, the woman stayed with her. “I’m Cora Ashbury,” she said. “And don’t mind me. I’m what everyone calls a busybody. You know, telegraph, tell Cora...” Her tone was dry. The sparkle in her eye was not.

“I’m Chantel—”

“—Johnson, from the New York publishing Johnsons. Yes, I know,” Cora said. “It’s really quite an anomaly that it’s taken me this long to meet you,” she continued. “My husband and I were away on a cruise, and when I got back and heard that we had someone new in our midst...well, I told Kenneth that we just had to be here tonight...”

The town busybody. A woman who prided herself on knowing everything about everyone and didn’t seem to be remiss in sharing what she knew. Fate again stepping in to give Chantel a hand.

Forcing her gaze to stay away from the man she could feel in her blood even from across the room, she turned to face Cora fully.

“It’s good to meet you, Cora,” she said, holding out a hand and then wondering if society women shook hands. “I’ve only been in town a few weeks, so you didn’t miss much. I’m afraid everything’s pretty much still a blur to me at this point.”

Cora’s fingers were soft against hers, her grip light. “Yes, well, if there’s anything you need to know, just call me. I’m always happy to help. We can be a tough bunch to get to know, but with Colin at your side, you’ll be fine. He’s a good man...”

She leaned in closer to add, “I’ve always felt bad for him, you know? His parents dying so young, back-to-back like they did, leaving him, not even out of law school to take over the firm, with a teenage sister to care for. You’d think that folks would have looked out for him, but no, everyone with a daughter anywhere near marrying age stepped in and tried to bring him into their families. And not out of any real regard for what was best for him or that sweet sister of his—though she is a bit of an odd one, isn’t she? Shameful, really, the way he’s been treated like an Arabian stallion on the auction block. It’s kind of fun, seeing him hook up with someone none of them even know. Anyway, there I go again, carrying on and on. Kenneth says that I was born without a shutoff valve, but I do mean well...”

Apparently, society or no, there was one in every crowd. In her world, they called them informants.

Opening her small black clutch to pull out Johnson’s cell phone, Chantel was about to ask for the woman’s contact information when Cora, who also had a hand in her beaded clutch (real pearls, Chantel was sure), pulled out a card and held it out to her.

Colin was on the move. She’d caught his black-suited shoulders out of the corner of her eye. And tried to ignore another surge of hormonal overload where he was concerned.

As she reached the next station—where there was a chardonnay that apparently shied away from an oaky buttery style—Chantel didn’t just swirl. She didn’t spit. She swallowed.

If she thought there could be something—anything—between her and Colin, she was wrong. He wasn’t personal.

Yes, she was with him. But only under pretense. It wasn’t real. None of it was real.

Real was a boy crying for help in the only way he knew how—through artwork at school. A woman whose husband was probably beating her and had it in him to kill a family member. Real was Julie Fairbanks sitting at home alone because her rapist was most likely in the room with Chantel tonight, sipping wine.