Overseas by Beatriz Williams Page B

coffee. “She likes to read and garden. Pretty typical stuff.”
    “You’re fortunate.”
    “What about your parents? What were they like?”
    “My parents.” He looked at me sideways and lifted the cup to his mouth. “I’m not sure I can explain this properly.”
    “Secret agents, huh? You’re the hidden love child of Bond and Moneypenny?”
    He choked on his coffee. “Bloody hell. Was it that obvious?”
    “I took a DNA sample. Look,” I said, setting down my coffee cup with an abrupt thrust. “Do you mind if I change?”
    “I do,” he told me solemnly. “I rather like that frock. But go on. I imagine it’s rather more pleasure for me to watch than for you to wear.”
    “Something like that. I’ll be right back.”
    “I’ll be waiting,” he said.
    I fled down the short hallway to my bedroom. I wanted to change, it was true. The dress wasn’t exactly comfortable. But the more pressing imperative was that, after all the champagne and excitement, my bladder was about to explode. I twisted myself into a pretzel, unzipping my dress, and slipped on a bra and my usual evening uniform of tank top and yoga pants and cardigan; then I went to the bathroom and started in surprise at the reflection in the mirror. I looked possessed. My skin glowed with color; my drab gray eyes burned almost silver. I pulled out the pins from my hair and shook it free, and then found an elastic to twist the waving strands out of my face.
    He was standing up when I came back, looking at the photographs on the windowsill. “That’s me with my best friends,” I said. “Michelle and Samantha. We went through Europe the summer after college. I think that was Paris.”
    “Yes, Paris,” he said softly. He turned around and looked at me. “Now I feel rather ridiculous,” he complained.
    “You can loosen your tie,” I pointed out.
    “I wasn’t brought up to loosen my tie,” he said, but he untied the bow anyway and released the top button of his shirt, drawing apart the pointed triangles of his dress collar. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew out an envelope. “For you.”
    “What’s this?”
    “I arrived just before the silent auction closed,” he said. “I felt I owed you something more than a simple apology, for my behavior last Christmas.”
    “You don’t owe me anything.” I eyed the envelope suspiciously. “And it had better not be that thing with Brian Williams, either, because I don’t do live TV.”
    He laughed. “It’s not. Open it.”
    I took it from him and ran my finger under the flap. “Oh no,” I said, feeling the blood drain downward from my face. “Oh, no you don’t. You are not, repeat
not
, going to give me a freaking
airplane
share
!”
    “I already have.”
    “Julian, the bid was… I don’t even want to say it! I mean, way, way too much.”
    “It was a charitable donation,” he said.
    “That’s not the point. You can’t just
give
me stuff like this.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I’m not that kind of girl,” I bit out, thrusting the thing back in his hands.
    He flinched in horror. “I didn’t mean it like
that
! I’m not expecting…”
    “No, it’s not that. I know you’re not… that it’s not… But you see,” I tried to explain, past the heat building once more under the skin of my face, “it’s kind of the elephant in the room, isn’t it?”
    “Elephant?”
    “Oh, please. Who you
are
, Julian. Your… um… your…” I looked down at my fingers, picking anxiously at one another.
Your money. The m-word.
Just say it.
But instead I only sighed: “Let’s sit down. We might as well get this over with.”
    “Get
what
over with?”
    “This.” I sank into the sofa, girding myself. “Ground rule one: you are not allowed to buy me expensive gifts.”
    “Define expensive.” He dropped down next to me and folded his arms.
    “Well,” I said, “it’s kind of like pornography. You know it when you see it. And
this
is definitely too expensive.