“I’d like to think she is,” Towner replied graciously.
Callie followed in Towner’s wake, smiling when greeted, shaking hands when introduced. Towner had told her about May Whitney, the family matriarch who ran the shelter on Yellow Dog Island. Evidently their relationship was strained, partly because of history and partly because May had left Towner doing most of this fund-raising work. May was known for her skills with a six-gauge shotgun and for being as antisocial as they come. “I don’t believe she’s stepped on the mainland for the last five years. So both the organization and the hosting of this event fall to me,” Towner told Callie.
“That’s a lot of work for one person.”
“I don’t do everything myself. I have a group of volunteers to help. And, of course, there’s Marta. If it weren’t for this fund-raiser and the money the women earn making Ipswich bobbin lace, the shelter would have closed a long time ago. When you see the work they do out there, it’s definitely worth it. Any complaint I have about this event seems ridiculously selfish.”
“There must be at least two hundred people here tonight,” Callie said, looking around to see if she was dressed appropriately. She’d purchased a simple black sheath with thin shoulder straps for the occasion, and Towner had complimented her on it, but she wasn’t sure. Some people seemed as if they’d come directly from work, but most of the older women had dressed more formally, looking as if they’d donned a lifetime—or at least a few marriages’ worth—of accumulated jewelry for the occasion. The room sparkled with diamonds and the light refracted from the crystal chandeliers and candlesticks on each table.
Even though she was dressed nicely, Callie felt awkward in this crowd. Most people glanced quickly at her and then resumed their conversations. But she noticed a few women looking at her strangely, their eyes lingering as if trying to place her. Was she being recognized? Many people here were certainly old enough to remember Olivia.
Callie was relieved when the master of ceremonies asked people to take their seats. Towner hurried Callie to a table near the stage. A handsome young man in a dark suit who’d been sitting next to a distinguished looking middle-aged woman stood politely at their approach. Their eyes locked; her steps quickened. This fund-raiser just got a lot more interesting.
“Emily, Paul, we’re so delighted to be seated with you tonight. I’d like to introduce you to my friend Callie O’Neill. Callie, this is Emily Whiting and her son, Paul. Emily and her husband, Finn, run the Whiting Foundation. They do some of the best charitable work in New England. Emily is the shelter’s biggest supporter. She never misses one of these dinners.”
“So nice to meet you, Callie,” Emily said, extending her hand. Emily’s dress was far more understated than the others Callie had seen and far more elegant, a winter white cashmere with a matching waist-length jacket. Her hair was shoulder length and deep brown, with just a few streaks of grey at the temples. Callie noticed the emerald ring on her right hand, a simple platinum and diamond solitaire on her left.
Callie shook Emily’s hand, then turned to Paul. Something about his sandy hair and startlingly blue irises made her wonder where she’d seen him before.
He held Towner’s chair first, then Callie’s. She sat, still gazing curiously at him. His eyes were amazing. She always noticed people’s eyes. Windows to the soul. She felt like laughing at her use of the old cliché.
“Callie is the music therapist I told you about,” Towner said to Emily.
“Ah, the one who awakened Rose Whelan,” Emily replied.
Callie detected skepticism in her tone.
Towner spoke over her: “I told Emily about the singing bowl and the music therapy. And about the effect it had on Rose.”
“Do you know Rose?” Callie asked Emily.
“No, I’ve never had the pleasure,” Emily said. Without pause, she turned away from Callie and focused on Towner. “Where’s Rafferty this evening?”
“He donated his ticket to Callie.”
“Generous.”
“More like relieved.” Towner laughed. “You know he hates these events. You look very lovely tonight. I take it that means the drug trial is agreeing with you.”
“All credit goes to Chanel and La Mer, not the chemo. I don’t think Finn is going to make it, either,” Emily said. “He sends his regrets. As well as the foundation’s checkbook. And I have a far more handsome escort, don’t you think?”
Chemo, Callie thought. She wondered what kind of cancer Emily was fighting. She didn’t look exhausted, the way some of the chemo patients Callie treated did. By the way Emily had gazed at her son, Callie knew instantly that the woman was crazy about him. The perfect son, Callie thought, the solace of every woman who has ever tried and failed to mold the man she married. As soon as the thought occurred, she chided herself for thinking in stereotypes. She had no idea who Finn Whiting was or what his relationship with his wife was like.
Callie was only half listening to their conversation. It was clear that Emily would rather talk to Towner, which was fine, good in fact. Callie didn’t enjoy making small talk, especially if she had to work at it. Instead, she kept stealing glances at Paul, who was easily chatting up two cougar types on the other side of the table. She could smell their too-strong musky perfume from here.
How do I know him?
Feeling her eyes on him, Paul turned. “You’re staring at me.”
“I am not.” Callie laughed, both embarrassed and amused to be caught.
“Did I spill wine on my shirt or something?” He looked down at his shirt, then, finding nothing, he flashed a smile, waiting for her to explain.
“I know you from somewhere,” Callie said.
“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
“Ha, you’re quite the charmer, Mr. Whiting.” She smiled back at him. “Seriously, have we met?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, now looking at her with amusement.
She shook her head. She wasn’t great with names, but faces were different. She’d seen him somewhere. Hadn’t she?
“If I’d met you, I’m sure I’d remember,” Paul said, holding her gaze. “I’ve been living in Matera since last January. So, unless we met before that or in…”
“Italy,” Callie said.
“Yes,” he said, surprised. “You know Matera?”
“Never heard of the place.”
“Okay,” he said, drawing out each syllable.
She considered telling him that she had always wanted to go to Italy, but it would have been a lie. She didn’t tell him the truth, either: that she often knew what people were going to say before they spoke. The same way she sometimes knew what was going to happen just before it occurred.
“Red or white, miss?” The waiter offered Callie wine.
“She’ll have the red,” Paul said.
He obviously didn’t have the same talent anticipating answers. “White, please,” Callie clarified.