On my way out, I spot Arthur and Georgia sharing a private moment behind a column in the lower chapel. Kate had told me they were on-again, off-again. This must be an on day.
Back at La Maison, the reception is in full swing, with Faust and Uta hitting the dance floor before anyone else has their jackets off. He picks her up and flips her around in some kind of crazy swing number that I’d never imagined he could do. Faustino Molinaro is a never-ending surprise.
As the rest of the guests file into the ballroom, Ambrose lifts Charlotte up onto the dais and stands on the ground beneath her as she clinks her spoon on a champagne glass. She seems lit up from within, like there’s a thousand-watt bulb beneath that creamy skin. This is everything she’s ever wanted. For decades. The room falls silent, and everyone turns to face her.
“Ambrose and I said we weren’t going to allow speeches. We’ve all known each other too long, and there are way too many incriminating stories that could surface.”
Laughter rolls over the crowd, and winks and nudges are exchanged.
“But I just want to take a moment to thank everyone for being here today. Welcome, kindred. I especially want to thank the members of La Maison . . . my house. Gaspard, Jules, Vincent . . . and Ambrose. You were already here when Jean-Baptiste recovered Charles’s and my bodies and invited us to stay. You have been my fathers, my brothers, my world. I have never known better men than you. And now I am marrying one of you.”
“It’s a done deal, baby,” Ambrose remarks, looking up at her with a wink.
“Finally!” Charlotte teases, nudging his broad shoulder with her hip. Everyone laughs.
She lifts her glass. “Thank you for joining us on this day where our joy is truly complete. Santé!”
“Santé!” the crowd cheers, sipping their champagne in honor of the happy couple, and as the music starts back up, people crowd onto the dance floor. I look around for Ava, who I had only briefly glimpsed at the wedding, since I had to be there early and was seated in the front row with Vincent, Kate, Charles, and Jeanne. She must have been one of the first to leave the chapel, because I didn’t see her afterward.
But now, there she is across the room, wearing a full-length ruby-colored gown, her hair pulled back into an elegant updo. She is stunning. My heart and throat do this simultaneous squeeze-and-choke thing, and I can’t breathe for a full second. Which is one second too long, because some dashing guy from Geneviève’s house steps in, gives her this gallant and totally annoying bow, and sweeps her onto the dance floor.
FIFTEEN
“HOW’S YOUR DANCE CARD LOOK?” SAYS THE voice I know better than any other—it’s been haunting my mind for months. And there is Kate, standing in front of me in her golden-auraed glory.
“Double-check your century, Kate,” I respond. “And stop stealing my lines.”
She gives me a sassy curtsy. I roll my eyes, and then, lunging, grab her around the waist and whisk her out onto the dance floor, making her laugh in delight.
“I’ve seen that dress before,” I say of her Asian-print silk gown.
“It’s my birthday dress,” she replies.
“Ah, yes. The one Vincent had custom-made as a surprise for your sweet seventeenth.”
“The very one,” she says.
“That was a truly brilliant boyfriend move,” I comment.
“Yeah,” she says. “He’s pretty good at those things.”
We dance in silence for a moment, and then I say softly, “I hope you know how lucky you are. How lucky you both are.”
She leans back to look at me, her face open with compassion. She doesn’t need to say anything—we both know what the other is thinking. I measure the pain in my heart, and it is still there, but it is less. “I’m going to be okay,” I say.
“I know,” she replies, and lays her head on my shoulder. Other couples move around us, but for a few moments time stops and it’s just the two of us, and my heart is calm and things are good.
And then Kate speaks and the magic is broken. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Ava. She’s pretty amazing, you know.”
I stop and stare at her. “You’re not going to try that old pass-the-guy-whose-heart-you-broke-onto-someone-else-so-you-won’t-feel-guilty routine, are you? Because that is so beneath you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kate quips. She places her hands back on my shoulders and forces me to dance. “You’re too smart for that.”
“I accept that compliment and beg you to stop talking before you say anything else that could come across as pitying or demeaning.”
“Deal,” says Kate, and throws her arms around my neck. The song is ending, and she gives me a hug. “We’re going to miss you,” she says, and leaves me standing face-to-face with Ava, having craftily deposited me inches away.
I have no time to think. “Um, dance?” I ask.
“Lose your suave somewhere on the dance floor?” Ava asks, cracking a smile.
“Uh, yeah. I think Faust trampled it under those size twenties of his.”
She laughs. “Let’s go.” She gives me her hand, and I lead her to a far corner of the room, away from the direction Kate wandered.
“You okay after that dance?” she asks, as I place one hand on her waist and grasp her hand in the other.
“Fighting form,” I respond. She doesn’t push the point, and I’m grateful that she doesn’t want to Talk, with a capital T.
We dance for a moment, and I’m just beginning to realize that I’ve actually got Ava in my arms for the very first time. I’m starting to enjoy it . . . immensely, when she says something. I try to focus. “What?” I ask, and point at the speakers. “I can’t hear you. The music . . .”
She moves her lips closer to my ear—I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried. “I’ve seen the way you are with your kindred. They all love you. Respect you. You seem so at home here—you are at home here. Are you sure you want to come back to New York?”
Oh God. She does want to Talk. Please, not here. Not now. I hold her to me for one more moment and then pull back and tap my ear. “It really is too loud. Do you want to go somewhere else?” I say, hoping she’ll just drop the whole subject.
“Yes.”
Back at La Maison, the reception is in full swing, with Faust and Uta hitting the dance floor before anyone else has their jackets off. He picks her up and flips her around in some kind of crazy swing number that I’d never imagined he could do. Faustino Molinaro is a never-ending surprise.
As the rest of the guests file into the ballroom, Ambrose lifts Charlotte up onto the dais and stands on the ground beneath her as she clinks her spoon on a champagne glass. She seems lit up from within, like there’s a thousand-watt bulb beneath that creamy skin. This is everything she’s ever wanted. For decades. The room falls silent, and everyone turns to face her.
“Ambrose and I said we weren’t going to allow speeches. We’ve all known each other too long, and there are way too many incriminating stories that could surface.”
Laughter rolls over the crowd, and winks and nudges are exchanged.
“But I just want to take a moment to thank everyone for being here today. Welcome, kindred. I especially want to thank the members of La Maison . . . my house. Gaspard, Jules, Vincent . . . and Ambrose. You were already here when Jean-Baptiste recovered Charles’s and my bodies and invited us to stay. You have been my fathers, my brothers, my world. I have never known better men than you. And now I am marrying one of you.”
“It’s a done deal, baby,” Ambrose remarks, looking up at her with a wink.
“Finally!” Charlotte teases, nudging his broad shoulder with her hip. Everyone laughs.
She lifts her glass. “Thank you for joining us on this day where our joy is truly complete. Santé!”
“Santé!” the crowd cheers, sipping their champagne in honor of the happy couple, and as the music starts back up, people crowd onto the dance floor. I look around for Ava, who I had only briefly glimpsed at the wedding, since I had to be there early and was seated in the front row with Vincent, Kate, Charles, and Jeanne. She must have been one of the first to leave the chapel, because I didn’t see her afterward.
But now, there she is across the room, wearing a full-length ruby-colored gown, her hair pulled back into an elegant updo. She is stunning. My heart and throat do this simultaneous squeeze-and-choke thing, and I can’t breathe for a full second. Which is one second too long, because some dashing guy from Geneviève’s house steps in, gives her this gallant and totally annoying bow, and sweeps her onto the dance floor.
FIFTEEN
“HOW’S YOUR DANCE CARD LOOK?” SAYS THE voice I know better than any other—it’s been haunting my mind for months. And there is Kate, standing in front of me in her golden-auraed glory.
“Double-check your century, Kate,” I respond. “And stop stealing my lines.”
She gives me a sassy curtsy. I roll my eyes, and then, lunging, grab her around the waist and whisk her out onto the dance floor, making her laugh in delight.
“I’ve seen that dress before,” I say of her Asian-print silk gown.
“It’s my birthday dress,” she replies.
“Ah, yes. The one Vincent had custom-made as a surprise for your sweet seventeenth.”
“The very one,” she says.
“That was a truly brilliant boyfriend move,” I comment.
“Yeah,” she says. “He’s pretty good at those things.”
We dance in silence for a moment, and then I say softly, “I hope you know how lucky you are. How lucky you both are.”
She leans back to look at me, her face open with compassion. She doesn’t need to say anything—we both know what the other is thinking. I measure the pain in my heart, and it is still there, but it is less. “I’m going to be okay,” I say.
“I know,” she replies, and lays her head on my shoulder. Other couples move around us, but for a few moments time stops and it’s just the two of us, and my heart is calm and things are good.
And then Kate speaks and the magic is broken. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Ava. She’s pretty amazing, you know.”
I stop and stare at her. “You’re not going to try that old pass-the-guy-whose-heart-you-broke-onto-someone-else-so-you-won’t-feel-guilty routine, are you? Because that is so beneath you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kate quips. She places her hands back on my shoulders and forces me to dance. “You’re too smart for that.”
“I accept that compliment and beg you to stop talking before you say anything else that could come across as pitying or demeaning.”
“Deal,” says Kate, and throws her arms around my neck. The song is ending, and she gives me a hug. “We’re going to miss you,” she says, and leaves me standing face-to-face with Ava, having craftily deposited me inches away.
I have no time to think. “Um, dance?” I ask.
“Lose your suave somewhere on the dance floor?” Ava asks, cracking a smile.
“Uh, yeah. I think Faust trampled it under those size twenties of his.”
She laughs. “Let’s go.” She gives me her hand, and I lead her to a far corner of the room, away from the direction Kate wandered.
“You okay after that dance?” she asks, as I place one hand on her waist and grasp her hand in the other.
“Fighting form,” I respond. She doesn’t push the point, and I’m grateful that she doesn’t want to Talk, with a capital T.
We dance for a moment, and I’m just beginning to realize that I’ve actually got Ava in my arms for the very first time. I’m starting to enjoy it . . . immensely, when she says something. I try to focus. “What?” I ask, and point at the speakers. “I can’t hear you. The music . . .”
She moves her lips closer to my ear—I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried. “I’ve seen the way you are with your kindred. They all love you. Respect you. You seem so at home here—you are at home here. Are you sure you want to come back to New York?”
Oh God. She does want to Talk. Please, not here. Not now. I hold her to me for one more moment and then pull back and tap my ear. “It really is too loud. Do you want to go somewhere else?” I say, hoping she’ll just drop the whole subject.
“Yes.”
