“I’d love a cocktail,” Hannah said, removing my hand from her face.
“Nice try,” her mother grimaced, scolding her daughter with a glare. “Wonderful to meet you, Charles.”
As intros to the family went, I thought that had been a good one. It was easy with Charles. He had a way with people. Effortlessly approachable and charismatic. It didn’t hurt that he was gorgeous, either. Now, if only I could secure myself in the same good graces with his family, starting with coming clean to Mrs. Hawthorne.
After I left the marketplace, I returned to the chalet and asked Ali if I might find some time with Mrs. Hawthorne today. I was surprised when she came back minutes later to say she would see me in the gym.
In a wing of the main house I hadn’t visited before, I found a room almost entirely enclosed by windows on one side and mirrors on the other. There was every imaginable piece of equipment arranged around the room, with a large space by the far wall with rolled-up yoga mats and large inflated balance balls. And off a short hallway, a sauna and steam room too.
Inside, Mrs. Hawthorne, wearing black leggings and a zip-up athletic jacket, lay on an elevated table while a man in a polo shirt manipulated her back and legs through a series of stretches. I knocked on the open door, hesitant to disturb her.
“Come in,” she called from the table. Mrs. Hawthorne lifted one hand to wave me over. “What can I do for you?”
It was a strange departure, encountering her like this. So casual. Every other time it had been in the kitchen or her office. Always pressed and proper. Buttoned up and impeccable. Now she wore her hair in a simple pony tail and sweat beaded her forehead.
“It really isn’t urgent,” I said, feeling like an intruder. “We can talk later.”
“Nonsense. You’re here now. Say what’s on your mind.”
I took an unsteady breath and glanced at the man who continued to flex her knees and roll her ankles. He kept his attention firmly on his client, blending into the scenery. Something I supposed came with practice.
“Amelia mentioned to me last night that she’d found an Instagram account I started. Après Brie.” It was mortifying having to explain this to a woman like Mrs. Hawthorne. It felt infantile and silly and I wanted to sink into the floor as my mouth dried up and my hands went clammy. “Sort of a food blog kind of thing, I guess you could say. I post about cooking and also some reviews from places around town and—”
“I’m aware.” Mrs. Hawthorne sat up abruptly and reached for a towel, wiping her forehead.
“Oh.” I braced for that long-awaited ass-chewing.
Instead, her trainer handed her a bottle of water and helped her down from the table. He handed her an elastic band that she placed around both ankles, before proceeding to put her hands on her hips and balance on one leg while extending the other to her side, repeating the action.
“I think it’s marvelous.”
“What?” I couldn’t be sure I wasn’t hallucinating.
“It’s quite entrepreneurial. Everyone was talking about it at the party last night. I do hope you’ll post photos of the event. I can have our photographer send over some shots.”
“Really? Oh.” I was totally at a loss for words. The panic was now turning to utter confusion. “It’s just, I know it technically violates theNDA.”
She switched to balancing on the other leg.
“I don’t consider my dinner china a matter of national security,” she said, flicking her eyes to me with the slightest hint of a smile on her otherwise pencil-straight lips.
I was pretty sure that counted as a joke and it hit me sort of sideways. I didn’t know Mrs. Hawthorne had a sense of humor.
“My friends are all terribly jealous,” she said, moving on to squats. “Seems like everyone has a spread inArchitectural Digestnow. None of them have a viral chef.”
Wow. I didn’t know I was such a trendsetter.
Her trainer then spread out a yoga mat on the floor with more elastic bands, instructing her through a further series of stretches and joint exercises while I stood off to the side because she hadn’t dismissed me yet.
“Since you’re here,” she said, lying on her back to lift her hips off the ground with one foot planted on the floor. “We might as well discuss my son.”
I swallowed the heavy lump in my throat.
“He tells me he’s quite taken with you.”
Her words from their argument still echoed in my head, the sting as potent as when they’d first come from her mouth.
“He’s always been impulsive,” she said. “Tends to leap without looking. Got him into a fair bit of trouble in his youth.”
