Hillcroft House was aptly named, situated as it was along the palisades at the southern edge of the city, the so-called "historic district." Preston had been to Hillcroft once before when the Rotary hosted their fundraiser at the place two years ago. Or had it been three years ago? Preston figured it didn't truly matter. He'd been attending Thaddeus Dimas that night.
The great room looked exactly like he remembered it.
He strode into the room, trying to radiate a confidence he had yet to feel. Faces swirled around him, the music from the band some piece that gave the brass their time in the limelight. The wall along the eastern side of the room was all windows that overlooked the river. Hillcroft House was built what many would call precariously near the edge of the palisades. In summer, the front windows would be opened, allowing access to a lower balcony hugging the cliff edge. In winter, no such access tonight. The windows were sealed and framed with a lit garland of some evergreen weave.
The northern edge of the room was dominated by a stage and a towering Christmas tree, it's starred top nearly touching the rafters of the vaulted ceiling. The band, a small gathering with a mix of brass and strings, and a percussion set, was placed at stage right. In the center sat a podium with the spoked wheel logo of Rotary International.
"Quite the gathering," Preston muttered quietly, not bothering to glance behind him. No one replied, but he surmised his voice had gotten swallowed by the crowd. Out of the sea of people, a blond-haired man approached, his young wife, or possibly his daughter at his side. Preston recognized the man as one of the city aldermen. Thomas Haining. Haining quickly locked eyes with Preston and made a beeline over. "Mister Tucci, a pleasure to finally meet you," he announced, shaking Preston's hand then pausing to introduce the woman at his side.
She was Haining's daughter after all. Surprise, surprise. And she was attending Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, home for the holidays apparently. Preston extended his own friendly greeting, and complimented her on her dress. He wasn't sure what else to say, but fashion was something he knew. "Kay Unger?" he asked, referring to the designer. The young woman clapped her hands to her mouth and made a girlish squeal.
"How did you know?" she asked, giving her father a smug look. See, her eyes said, I told you. People know!
Preston went on to explain the slight stylistic flairs, as distinct as a signature; then added that it was particularly appropriate for the event, given the designer's passion for philanthropy. The girl, Victoria was apparently her name, hung on every word. "Oh, tell me more," she said, in classic cliché style.
Preston found, to his surprise he did not blush. He smiled warmly at Victoria. "What would you like to know?" he asked, offering a gracious half-bow and extending an arm.
Under Haining's somewhat skeptical eye, Victoria detached herself from her father's company. "Tell me a bit about yourself," she replied, batting her heavily mascaraed lashes.
Preston gave a nod to Victoria's father, an unspoken request for permission. Protocol. Unnecessary, technically, but it made a good impression. Thomas's expression was still that of the mildly distrustful father, the sort who would question any young man's intentions; even if that man seemed to know more than he ought about fashion designers.
Haining hesitated only a second. "Go on, my dear," he said to Victoria. He gave Preston a slight nod, then made his way off to rub elbows with the high society of Plateau City.
Preston slipped through the crowd, Victoria at his left arm. "About myself, hmmm?" he purred, trying to put every ounce of refinement he had into his words. "Well, I am the Director and CEO of the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station. It's a position I've held for some time now. I graduated Cum Laude from Brown University in Rhode Island. MBA: Master of Business Administration, International baccalaureate program." He shrugged with what he hoped seemed modesty, and quickly tried to direct the focus back to her. That was what women liked, right?
"So you're attending Skidmore then?"
He asked Victoria about college: what was her field of study, how far in was she; was it going well, did she enjoy it. Simple, not-too-personal questions. Victoria happily answered, and explained she was pursuing a degree in Art History, with a minor in Studio Art. Preston listened intently, nodded at appropriate times, and periodically asking follow-up questions. Victoria seemed young, rather sheltered, but cheerful. At least she knew how to conduct herself at these events, Preston thought approvingly. He was beginning to worry about time (he hadn't worn a watch, they were inappropriate for such a venue), and looked quickly about for Rigel or Antoine.
For a moment, he didn't see them. A thin trickle of fear started to make its way down his back. Fortunately, Antoine's blue hair made him distinct in the crowd, and Rigel was at his side. Quickly, he sidled up behind Preston, allowing Rigel to approach. Victoria looked at the newcomers with polite curiosity.
Rigel slid up to Preston's right side. "Mister Tucci, you have another half hour before you need to be on-stage."
"Thank you, Miss Vought," he whispered back.
Preston took a step back and beamed proudly. "Victoria, please allow me to introduce my associates." He gestured to Rigel. "This is Miss Rigel Vought, my personal assistant."
Rigel shook hands politely with Victoria.
"-And this is Antoine Radson, my pilot."
Antoine gave a half-bow, and kissed Victoria's hand. "Enchantée, mademoiselle."
Victoria giggled.
Preston caught Antoine's eye. A little over the top, don't you think?
Antoine winked. Victoria thought it was for her. She blushed and tucked her face against Preston's shoulder. Preston, smiled slightly. He knew Antoine's wink was for him.
It didn't take long for Victoria to regain her composure. "So you have a jet?" She asked.
"Helicopter actually," Preston explained. "Technically, it belongs to the company, but, well…" he let his words trail off and gave her a smile.
"And he flies you wherever you need to go?"
He heard Antoine's voice cut in from behind him. "Well, technically Mister Tucci doesn't really need me anymore, Miss Haining. He's logged dozens, probably hundreds of hours by now. He's a fine pilot in his own right."
Preston felt Victoria's eyes on him, wide with adoration. "That must be so exciting," she breathed.
Preston smiled, his cheeks flushing slightly. "It can be, but that's enough about me. Please, tell me more about your artwork..."
Rigel watched Antoine, expression perplexed. What on earth was he doing? Was he purposefully trying to embarrass their boss? And, perhaps even more significant, Preston could fly a helicopter? She'd overheard Antoine mention it the day he rebuke Vice President LeBlanc, Rhonda, most severely. That had been a fearless display. Either Antoine was mad, or brilliant. Then again, Rigel considered, sometimes there was no boundary between the two.
Antoine clearly appeared to be reveling in some private joke. Rigel was sure she didn't know what it was. Still, for the first time she was truly getting to watch the interplay of the two men. Even though Preston's attention was focused on his female companion, there was a subtle undercurrent, a give and take between him and Antoine that never went away.
Rigel quietly observed them, making mental notes as she went.
Preston's speech went off without a hitch. He surprised himself. He flipped through the cue cards he had written, and looked about the crowded room. Everyone waited, patient yet eager. He could hardly blame them. After the donations, dinner would be served.
Antoine was easy to pick out from the crowd, his blue hair distinct among the sea of silver manes, brunets, and the occasional red or blond. Did he give me a wink, or was that just wistful thinking? Feeling suddenly more confident than he had a minute before, Preston set his cards on the lectern, and began.
"Well, that went smoothly," Antoine remarked when Preston rejoined his small retinue at the table.
"It did, didn't it," he remarked, as he adjusted his white bowtie proudly.
Rigel, as she so often did, said nothing. Merely watched.
"Y'know," Antoine remarked, leaning closer. "I'm kind of surprised you didn't bring those pistols you got as a silent auction donation."
Preston sipped his water and shook his head. "Those were a gift. Irreplaceable antiques with a history. I'm not parting with them."
Rigel's dark eyes lit up, curious. "You have a collection of antique firearms?"
Preston smiled, and shook his head. "Hardly. Just two. A matched set of Elgin cutlass pistols." His face clouded over, just for a second, but it was long enough. "I'm… I'm not a fan of guns." He wondered privately how much Rigel knew about him. The story Smithers orchestrated had lit up the front pages for a week, then just as quickly faded from view. Smithers had written a very open-and-shut spin tale. There wasn't much room left for speculation and debate. Preston wondered, as he ordered his food, if Rigel even knew he'd been shot.
Preston also found himself wondering why he should care whether she knew or not. Was he really that hung up on it? Did his past ordeals at AlkaliStark really fill his mind that much of the time? It was something he'd have to talk to his therapist about next Thursday, he decided. No, he corrected himself. The following Thursday. Holiday season. Even psychologists need time with their families, he mused.
His train of thought continued to run of its own accord. Family. He wondered what his parents were up to. He'd sent a card to their address in Boston, the very house he grew up in. He hadn't heard back. He expected a postcard would be along shortly nonetheless. But to which address? His old one or Antoine's? Had he even given them Antoine's address? He ignored his water and took a small sip of champagne instead.
Antoine's address; he'd probably given it to them. He knew that he'd used it as the return address when he sent them a card for Thanksgiving. His parents were always the sort to care about cards, if not actual involvement, over the holidays. It was a tradition Preston had kept. He had a card for Antoine back home, but he wasn't sure if he should give it or not. He'd bought it on the spur of the moment, it said exactly what he felt. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed too much like a couples' card. He could see the words now:
Christmas brings many thoughts anew;
Happy thoughts of the good times we've shared…
Heart-warming thoughts of how kind and caring you are…
And most of all: grateful thoughts -
Because I am so lucky to have a special friend like you!
Wishing you a wonderful and Merry Christmas.
Preston took quick stock of the other guests at the table. Everyone was still focused on eating. He didn't have to make small talk, or leave his own thoughts just yet. I should just burn that card, he thought wryly. It's Antoine: humor, yes; sentiment, no. And especially nothing that would make us seem like a couple. Preston berated himself for his choice, and concluded he'd definitely have to get rid of that before Antoine found it.
The servers cleared the table, and Preston was wondering what time would be appropriate to leave. He didn't want to be one of the first out the door, but the event was winding down. There was a fine line between staying fashionably late, and holding up the venue. Preston wished he'd worn a pocket watch.
Fortunately he was spared too much debate. The Master of Ceremonies and President of the Plateau City chapter of Rotary International were on the stage, thanking the guests, benefactors, everyone who had come, and wishing them a merry Christmas season. The less-than-subtle cue in polite society that the event was coming to a close, and it was time for them all to be moving on.
Preston got up, and shook hands with the other guests at the table. One of them, a man and his wife were anchors for the local news station. Well, she was the anchor. He worked behind the scenes in the production room. They explained they had a daughter, "just your age" the mother added.
Preston smiled as graciously as he could at the implication. It seemed to have been a theme of the evening much to his chagrin, and Antoine's apparent amusement. How was it that all these people conveniently had daughters who were "just his age" and single? Coincidence, Preston rolled his eyes. He thought not. Single? More likely mommy and daddy don't approve of their daughters' current boyfriend, he thought not without a trace of cynicism.
They circled through, following the herds of society in the archaic goodbye rituals of handshakes and kissed cheeks. As they walked, Preston felt, rather than saw Antoine's presence at his shoulder. Antoine leaned in, the piney scent of his cologne filling Preston's nostrils. "How you holding up, Prep?" Antoine whispered.
"It's like stepping through the looking glass," he whispered back. "All these years of being the single son, having my parents try to set me up… now other people are pushing their daughters at me. It feels weird."
Antoine leaned back and snickered softly. "Well, you are the unofficial debutante tonight. Come on. You really expect anything else? And with me as your wingman, well, yeah. You crushed it." Antoine winked, made a clicking sound, then slid back a ways into the tide of guests. Rigel alone was at Preston's side. He looked down, as if surprised by her presence.
Out of habit, he offered her an elbow. Courtesy. Years of etiquette training drilled into his head. She smiled politely up at him, comfortable, but still professional. "Did you enjoy the evening, Miss Vought?" he asked as he held her coat out.
"I did," she replied, slipping an arm in. "I must confess this was my first event like this, sir."
Preston raised his eyebrows. "Really? I wouldn't have guessed. You kept me on schedule, knew names and faces like a pro. Rigel, I rarely say this, but I was impressed."
Rigel smiled. She didn't blush, she didn't look uncomfortable. Apparently she was one of those rare women who could take a compliment without getting flustered. Unusual, in Preston's experience. Rigel gave a respectful tilt of her head. "Anyone can do a job, sir. It's a matter of pride to do it well. But Mister Tucci, sir, may I make a small request?"
"Of course."
"I must admit, sir, I prefer 'Riley' or 'Miss Vought' to my given name; sir."
Somewhere in Preston's memory, he seemed to remember she'd said something about that. "Understood. Miss Vought, then. Forgive me, but I don't want to become overly familiar. I hope you understand."
Rigel pulled her coat around her as they stepped into the winter night. Finally, after weeks of sleet and rain it was snowing. Soft, fluffy flakes that lazily wafted out of the sky, reflecting in the streetlamps. Rigel turned her face upward, and smiled into the night air. She seemed to be enjoying the moment. Preston paused, realizing it was just the two of them. He looked over his shoulder. Antoine was nowhere in sight, and their limo was already pulling around.
Rigel caught his motion. She pointed towards the entrance. Antoine was hastily bounding down the steps, not exactly the picture of dignity as he buttoned his overcoat. "Hey, sorry," he breathed, sliding up to them. "There was something I wanted to take care of, you know? Anyhow, it's done, and I'm here. Good to go?"
The limo had coasted to a halt. The driver stepped out and held the door open for them. "Yes," Preston replied, Rigel still at his arm. "We are good to go."