They had reached the door by then. Melinda took their coats just as she had today. As soon as they got away from the throng of guests, Sylvie picked up on the thread of the fight. “Why don’t you care about Charles?” she hissed. “Why don’t you ever try?”
“Of course I try,” James answered tightly. And then after a moment’s thought, “Maybe he doesn’t see it. Maybe you don’t see it. It’s like everyone’s minds were made up about me and him a long time ago.”
Sylvie stepped back. “How can you turn this around and make it his fault? How can you act so blameless about everything?”
James’s eyes narrowed, obviously sensing what was coming next. “Jesus,” he whispered. “Don’t turn this into an argument about that.”
“How can I not?” she cried. The faceless woman, tall and sophisticated, the kind that wore bold, modern jewelry, pulsed in Sylvie’s mind, suddenly present. “How can I not make everything an argument about that?”
James’s gaze fell to the ring on Sylvie’s right hand. That’s why, his look said. “I’m so tired, Sylvie,” he whimpered. “I don’t want to be here.”
She turned away from him, hurt. Never in a million years did she imagine this would happen to her. Other people, yes. Her mother, yes. But her mother deserved it. Why had James turned to this woman years ago? Because of their rift over the kids? From resentment over Sylvie’s unquenchable respect for her grandfather? To get back at the Bates-McAllisters because they didn’t give him a job? But how could he still be angry about that? He had succeeded in his own right. He had achieved without her family’s help. Wasn’t that better?
A hand touched her arm now, and Sylvie turned. Martha Wittig, her fellow board member, was putting the last of a canapé into her mouth, delicately wiping her chin. “Long time no see,” she joked. She kissed Sylvie on both cheeks. “Did you see their new painting yet?”
Sylvie blinked, feeling light-headed, her emotions whipping around too fast. “No,” she murmured.
Martha looped her arm through Sylvie’s and guided her to the left. “Melinda’s birthday was just a ruse to get us all here and show the thing off, don’t you think?” She led her into the grand living room, which had not one but two fireplaces. “It’s not my taste, of course. And have you noticed how thin Melinda looks? It’s not very becoming. Do you think it’s because of all the financial trouble they’re in? I hear they’re short-selling their Florida house.”
Sylvie murmured a noncommittal answer and followed Martha to the enormous canvas that Geoff and his wife had bought at a Sotheby’s auction a few weeks ago. The painting was dark and muddy, completely unremarkable, but the throng of people in front of it oohed and ahhed as though they were amazed. Sylvie wondered if, once they were safe in their own cars, they would cut it to pieces, wondering aloud why on earth Geoff had paid so much money for something so ugly.
“Oh, Sylvie!” Martha cried. “Here’s someone I want to introduce you to!”
She brought forward a small man with a salt-and-pepper beard and barely any hair on the top of his head. The man was shorter than Sylvie, with the compact physique of a man who cycled the roads near her house, the kind who wore tight spandex shirts and pants and always rode in a pack. He wore pleasant, round glasses and a dark red cashmere sweater instead of a jacket.
“This is Michael Tayson,” Martha trilled. “Michael, this is Sylvie Bates-McAllister.”
Sylvie’s body went limp.
“Nice to meet you,” the man said, sticking out his hand. His handshake was almost bone crushing. Everything was moving too fast.
“Ah,” Sylvie finally managed to say. “I–I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I apologize for not being at the board meeting,” Michael said, finally drawing his hand away. “My son had the flu, and my wife was on call. She’s a neurosurgeon.”
Sylvie nodded dumbly. A rushing sound was growing louder and louder in her ears.
“But it’s good to finally meet you in person,” Michael Tayson added. “I’ve heard a lot of nice things about you.”
“Uh-huh.” Sylvie couldn’t quite control her mouth. Michael’s steadiness was unnerving. It seemed as though he knew a delicious secret, perhaps something about Christian Givens and Scott. It also seemed as if he was gazing straight into Sylvie and decoding her motives. He probably knew she’d sought out Warren Givens. He probably even knew what she suspected about Scott’s guilt.
“How was the board meeting?” he asked.
“Great,” she managed to answer. “We always get a lot of work done.”
“Good,” Michael Tayson said. “Glad to hear it.”
She looked behind him. Martha had drifted into the other room. The only other people left in the study besides the two of them were a couple Sylvie didn’t know, standing very close to the art, talking among themselves. A shiver rocketed through her body. All the other sounds of the party melted away. Her heart chugged at her temples.