Their food arrived just as Jeremy returned to the table. Eliza beamed at him, trying not to feel too guilty about embellishing a few details. She had a flair for the dramatic, and she knew the public would be so disappointed when they heard he'd just put the ring on her finger without even saying or asking anything. What kind of proposal was that, anyway? Eliza vacillated between being thankful it was a non-proposal proposal--the kind she secretly thought was the most understatedly romantic--and worrying that it wasn't shout-at-the-top-of-your-lungs romantic enough to share with the world. Or, more specifically, to share with the press and her adoring public.
"Can you tell us about the poem you wrote?" the reporter asked, turning to Jeremy and shoving the tape recorder toward his face.
"What poem?" Jeremy asked, looking puzzled and waving the recorder away with a hand.
Eliza interrupted before the reporter could say anything more. "Can we finish this later?" she said sweetly, plastering on her best
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put-off smile. "As you can see, my boyfriend and I are in the middle of dinner." She gestured to the steaming plates before them as if to emphasize her point. The newsman nodded gruffly and left.
Jeremy grabbed his knife and tore into his steak. When he finished chewing, he looked up at her intently. "Why do you keep calling me your boyfriend?"
"Last time I checked, you seemed to be pretty fond of me," she said playfully, grabbing the saltshaker from its post dangerously near the edge and sprinkling its contents lightly over her grilled sole.
"Ah, but I was reading, uh, Page Six." Jeremy spread a little Grey Poupon over his steak before taking another bite. "And in their interview you called me your, and I quote, 'handsome fiance.'" He made air quotes as he said it and smirked to show that he was joking, but there was a hint of annoyance in his eyes.
"Is something bothering you?" she asked worriedly, putting the salt back down on the table.
"No, it's nothing." He shrugged, leaning back in his chair and wiping his hands on the napkin in his lap. "It's just funny how you make a big deal out of our engagement to the press whenever they ask you about your store."
"You read Page Six?" she teased, trying to make light of it, even though she was guilty of making a big deal about it for the press--playing up the blushing bride angle was keeping her store in the news.
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Jeremy took a swig of his beer. "Sure." His lips twitched. "Don't worry. It doesn't bother me either way. It's just funny," he said again, though it was obvious he didn't find it all that amusing. He grabbed another roll and tore it apart with his teeth.
Jeremy was about to say something else when another photographer walked by. "Smile for the Hampton Star ! "
He rolled his eyes and she shrugged, but they both leaned in and flashed what Eliza thought of as their "eyebrows-at-the-same-level New York Times wedding-announcement" pose.
The newspaper would have its shot: the perfect picture of a couple in love. But as Eliza pulled away, her brow furrowed, and Jeremy brooded behind his beer; it was obvious to anyone who'd care to look after the camera flash had passed that there was something less than perfect going on there.
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WHAT GOOD IS A THIRTY-MINUTE MEAL IF YOUR FRIENDS ARE MORE THAN THIRTY MINUTES LATE?
ONE DASH OF OREGANO. TORN BASIL LEAVES. A TEASPOON of salt ... or was it two teaspoons of salt? Mara checked the recipe again. One teaspoon. Oops. So dinner would be slightly salty. She picked up a pepper grinder and ground it for a few seconds above the steaming dish. There. Maybe the spiciness would combat the saltiness.
"Mmmm . . . what's cooking?"
Mara looked up and smiled when she saw Eliza's father. "Hey, Mr. T." They never saw him around much since he was always on the golf course, having a sail, or out at dinner at the Maidstone. But Mara felt comfortable around Mr. Thompson, since she had spent a fair amount of time with Eliza's family in New York over the years. He was a lot older than her father--almost a grandfather, really--and she liked him a lot.
"I'm making spaghetti Bolognese," Mara explained as she grabbed some cloves of garlic from the enormous Sub-Zero.
"Fantastic." Ryder Thompson settled onto one of the bar
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stools and fixed himself a drink. He looked at his watch. "Suzy better get down here soon, or we'll miss the dinner and have to join you! Though the way things are smelling, that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world." He smiled and Mara began to understand where Eliza got her charm.
Suzy blew through the kitchen wearing a wrinkled black evening dress, her hair its usual frizz bomb, magenta lipstick on her teeth. Mara knew Suzy worked so much she hardly had time for her kids, let alone for grooming herself before going out on a date with her boyfriend (though it was weird to think of Eliza's dad as somebody's boyfriend). "Mara!" Suzy cried when she saw her. "Does Cook know you're in here?"
"She does, and it's cool." Mara wiped her hands on her apron and tried to look as responsible as she could. Earlier today she'd had to practically beg the Finnemores' formidable cook to let her use the kitchen. Florentia was very strict about keeping order in her domain and had tried to convince Mara to just get takeout. Mara had to swear on her life that she wouldn't touch the complicated oven controls, since Florentia seemed equally worried that Mara would soil her pristine kitchen as that she'd burn the mansion down.
"Okay." Suzy nodded dubiously. She turned to Ryder. "Darling, are you ready? Do you have the tickets?"
"I thought you had them," he said, his forehead wrinkling in concern.