Pinpoint (Point #4) (19 page)

“Take a breath.” I hop off the desk and put a soothing hand on my sister’s shoulder. “You’re worrying me. Is something else bothering you?”

Violet’s brow furrows. Her mouth opens to speak, then it shuts, and she shakes her head. “The usual stuff. The holiday season has us slammed, and I guess I’m just overall tired.”

“If you want me to stick around today, I’ll visit the Art Institute some other time.”

“Absolutely not. We aren’t behind on anything. We’re ahead of schedule with Friday’s Gratitude Dinner and the City Lights fundraiser.” The laptop on the center of her desk jingles with an alert. Violet’s brows draw together as she reads an email. “In fact, I’m on my way to meet a potential client. You sure you don’t want to come to the game tonight? Stella and Blake will be there, too.”

“Thanks but I’m going to pass. Going out two nights in a row is beyond my scope of activity. Especially with a fourteen-hour day looming tomorrow.”

“The good news is we don’t need to be at the venue until ten. Cameron will drop me off at our place around nine, and we will leave our place by nine thirty.”

The command scrapes across my nerves like pointy nails digging into my shoulder blades. I’m sure Violet doesn’t intend to be condescending with her patronizing remarks. Nevertheless, my tolerance level continues to deplete. In a rush to ignore the uncomfortable feelings, I begin gathering my phone and toss it into my tote bag. I shrug into my jacket and twist an infinity scarf around my neck. Tightening my ponytail, I assess my sister with what I hope is a neutral expression. “I’ll be ready. Text me and let me know how the meeting goes.” Halfway to the door, I stop. “Oh! Wish Cameron good luck from me.”

Violet’s fingertips fly across her keyboard; she’s obviously deep in thought responding to an email. “I will. Enjoy the Impressionists. Love you sister, sister.”

The nickname never fails to soften my heart. We’ve been calling each other that since we used to hide in the living room and watch the television show at a low volume so our parents wouldn’t hear. Even though we were always nervous we would get caught, it is a fond memory. The niggling resentment fades. “Love you back.” I leave the loft with a flourish, thrilled to have an afternoon to myself.

By the time I reach the museum, I build a strong wall of resolve around me. The reasonable part of my brain reigns supreme today. I know what I have to do.

To my surprise, Oscar waits on the marble steps outside the museum when I arrive right on time. In dark jeans, an oatmeal Henley, and a well-tailored open black peacoat, he looks like he stepped off the cover of
a fashion magazine. His unruly dark hair is pushed off his face, though one irreverent curl falls on his forehead. As if he senses my arrival, Oscar turns toward me. Instantly, his lips hitch upward in a grin. From down here, I swear his eyes light up.

No! That’s your optimistic side trying to control the situation.
Brushing aside the fantasy that my appearance causes Oscar to illuminate with pleasure, I jog up the steps, glad for my flat ankle boots.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Only a few a minutes. I walked from Mariposa. Shall we?” Oscar extends a hand toward the museum entrance, indicating I should walk ahead of him. Like on our date, his fingertips press into the small of my back, sending shivers up the length of my spine. I go rigid. Pause.

“Something wrong?”

Courage wells in my chest.
Advocate for yourself.

“Oscar, I have male friends, and they don’t touch me when we’re together unless it’s a casual hug. This is a possessive gesture, and you’re confusing me. Aren’t we
just
friends?” Frustration laces my words. I’m upset that I need to be the voice of reason, that I can’t indulge in the dream that this is our second date.

“This is me, Iris. Get used to it.”

I grit my teeth. “Tell me why you insist on pursuing this friendship.”

Oscar moves to stand directly in front of me, and his hands clasp my shoulders tightly. I lift my gaze, instantly drowning in the warmth of his eyes.
Don’t lose yourself in him. You’re just friends. Just friends.

“Iris, the bulk of my life is consumed by business. The people I work with aren’t my friends; they are my associates. Around you, I don’t have to talk construction schedules, menus, VIPs, investors, or whatever else is at the forefront of my mind. I don’t have much free time, if any, to devote to a woman or my parents or steady friendships. When I’m with you, I can check out of my business life and relax. I can be myself, unwind. That’s what friends are for, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” I agree grudgingly.

“Friendship is all I have to give, Iris. I know it’s not much, but I’m asking you from the bottom of my heart to accept me as I am.”

Fudge. The line between rationality and romance blurs dangerously. I’m losing the battle to remain logical.
Friends, friends, friends,
I chant inwardly.

I find that my breath comes out shallowly. Without Oscar’s steadying hands, I might stumble. “Strictly friends.”

Oscar’s lips flirt with a smile. “Chivalrous friends. That means I may touch your back occasionally. Can you handle that?”

Grounded by the humor, I dip out of his clutches. “Consider it handled. Ready for the arts?” Oscar jogs up the final steps to move ahead of me and open the door.

“Does this fall within the scope of our friendship?” Oscar’s eyes twinkle with mirth. In response, I tilt my nose toward the sky, hearing Oscar’s chuckles as I stride ahead of him. Oscar ushers me past the ticket line and to the docent collecting tickets. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and reveals a card to the collector who allows us to enter without incident.

“Fancy,” I murmur teasingly.

“Can’t take credit for my stewardship of the Art Institute. I maintain the membership to keep my mother happy. She’s on the board.”

At the mention of his mother, heat rushes to my cheeks. The image of the beautiful, regal blonde is burned into my memory. Oscar notices I’ve fallen silent.

“As you must have gleaned, my mother is elegant, well-mannered, and not a fan of her son behaving like an asshole. My words, not hers.” He smiles ruefully. Even that is breathtakingly handsome. Dang him and his unending gorgeousness. “Don’t give it another thought. If you ever come upon her again, she will be the epitome of kindness. As far as she’s concerned, you’re a saint and I’m the sinner. That’s a pretty accurate description, wouldn’t you say?”

That he has such a low opinion of himself makes my heart clench painfully.

While we talk, we ascend the staircase to the second level and walk into a room of Renaissance triptychs.

I don’t want him dwelling on negative thoughts, so I take on a light tone. “Nice try distracting me. From my brief interaction with Elizabeth, she was kind. Obviously not all of her lessons sunk in with her son.” I elbow Oscar in the side gently and toss a grin in his direction. I move to one wall to study the three-paneled painting. We don’t talk much as we make our way through the twisting hallways of different art periods except for mentioning what we do and don’t find appealing.

Nearly two hours later, Oscar and I are sitting at a table in the museum café. Feeling relaxed in his presence, I speak without censure. “You know what I like most about living the city?”

Oscar swallows an espresso shot. “Tell me.”

“All the different people and their emotions. There’s an incredible amount of free positivity.”

“How do you figure?”

Spearing a piece of salad with my fork, I wave the utensil around the room. “Mostly, I mean when I’m walking down a block or shopping in a grocery store, and I see someone smiling to themselves. They’re alone and wearing unfettered happiness. Gosh, even if I’m in the darkest mood, I can’t help but smile back at them. That’s the gift of all this anonymity. Even when we’re by ourselves, there’s a connection to be had with someone else.” I shrug with a bit of self-confidence, realizing Oscar is staring at me intently. “Although I’m sure others say you can find crippling sadness wherever you look—poverty, loneliness, tears . . . With the good comes the bad.” I slip the metal fork into my mouth, chewing my bite.

“Iris Harper, you’re one of a kind.”

Pausing mid-chew, I blink at him in wonder. A reverent note in this tone doesn’t escape me. Quickly, I finish and swallow the bit of chopped salad.

Uncomfortable with his silent but rigorous contemplation of my explanation, I change the subject. “What’s your favorite part of living in the city?”

Oscar glances over my shoulder. “I’m don’t know what aspect of Chicago I enjoy most anymore. I don’t get to partake in the benefits of urban living as much as I used to, and frankly, I’m not sure that I want to much longer.”

“You want to leave Chicago?” I ask in surprise. “What about your restaurants?”

“Ah, you’ve nailed down my dilemma. But my restaurants aren’t so much mine anymore. I’m not directing the kitchen in the traditional sense. Successfully running restaurants from a business perspective may be a talent of mine, but it’s not a passion. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t wish I could be working in the back of the house instead of the front.” Oscar grimaces. “Here I am, grumbling about my success. Not a very attractive trait, I’m afraid, but it’s the truth.”

“Sometimes, the truth is ugly.” I try to inject understanding, not pity, into my response.

Oscar’s scowl deepens when he pulls his vibrating cell phone from his pocket. “Forgive me, business calls.” Abruptly, he leaves the table to take the call. I sit there alone, contemplating what he revealed. Oscar sounds unhappy. To think this wildly successful man is not pleased with his successes makes my chest hurt. Then, when I put in his obvious loneliness, I swear my heart cracks a little. I resolve to be Oscar’s friends—to give him the kind of relationship he asked for and not let my pesky romantic notions get in the way.

Five minutes later, he returns, still glaring, though I know it’s not directed at me.

“Duty calls and I’ve got to run. Lunch has been taken care of. I’ll call you to finalize the details of the student dinner.” Oscar bends down and presses his lips to my cheek in a tender kiss. Warmth spreads through my body rapidly. “I’m sorry for running, Iris.” And then he’s gone, not giving me a moment to thank him for the meal or entrance to the museum or his company.

Somehow, I know he’s doing more than running to work; he’s sprinting away from any complications with me.

Skirting around the perimeter of the Scarlett ballroom, I plaster on a welcoming smile. Most of the three hundred Gratitude Dinner guests are filtering their way from the cocktail reception into the main hall to find their seats. Part of my job, as Violet calls it, is guest concierge. That means escorting guests to their table and keeping an eye on VIPs to ensure their drinks are full. The Gratitude Dinner gathers some of the city’s biggest philanthropists to review their year of giving. Since the guests pay allegiance to a wide breadth of causes, Violet lets her charity rule slide. This year, the dinner celebrates over twenty million dollars of contributions to local causes. Potential clients sit at every one of the twenty-five rectangle and square tables. My sister hustles like a professional, effortlessly gliding around the room as though putting together this event was as simple as straightening her hair. On the other hand, I imagine I look like an imposter, clunking around in pointy black heels and a sleek midnight shift dress, both on loan from my sister.

Restlessness plagues me. In contrast to volunteering at Mentoring Chicago, I get almost zero personal fulfillment from this job. The thing that makes this worthwhile for me is spending time with Violet and watching her success. With every meeting she conducts, party we execute, and guest we delight, pride bursts through me. My older sister is achieving her dreams, and I am genuinely thrilled for her. But with that pride comes an inevitable pang of jealousy. I empathize with Oscar’s need to be in the kitchen. The more I work among Chicago’s elites, the more I realize that I am meant to be in a smaller location and in flat, supportive shoes.

“Iris, is that you?”

I pause, mid-phony smile at a throng of guests entering the ballroom. That voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. The moment I place the elegant blonde, my stomach clenches. Elizabeth Alexander wears a flawless emerald evening gown. Her blond hair is swept into a chignon at the base of her head. Her hand rests delicately on the bicep of a handsome man with vibrant blue eyes and salt and pepper hair. As Oscar predicted, not an ounce of judgment exists in her warm expression. In fact, she looks pleased to see me.

“He—hello.” I clear my throat. “Hello, Elizabeth.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, I’m thrilled to run into you, but I didn’t know you were attending this dinner.”

Her kindness instantly sets me at ease. I find my faux expression melting into a true smile. “You’re right. Although I support these wonderful causes, I’m not attending as a guest. My sister, Violet Harper, owns Expertly Planned, the organizer of this event. I’m her right hand.”

Elizabeth listens carefully, nodding along. Her face lights with recognition when I mention Expertly Planned. “Oh, I’ve heard wonderful things about your agency. This dinner certainly matches your company’s reputation. Forgive me. I’m being rude! Let me introduce you to my husband, Jacob Alexander. Jacob, this is Iris Harper, a friend of our son’s.” There’s no veiled comment underneath her statement. With the same friendliness as his wife, Jacob extends his hand to mine in a warm shake.