II. Invitation

At the end of the lesson, when he had first informed her that there was no possible alternative--and he had checked--at present to return her home due to the severe conditions, he had, of civil necessity, extended his own hospitality. He had rather hoped she would decline politely--preferring instead an opulent suite of rooms in the city; for which he would gladly have paid, apologizing all the while for the inconvenience, and sending a lavish gift basket once she was settled in.

But it seemed that Ulaauq Christiansen would always be a source of curious vexation for Kenneth Irons; the darkly beautiful pianist had a worrisome presence, and a cool self-possession he feared to allow to interact with Ian. He had tried to make some sort of peace with the idea of her some twenty lessons ago. He had tried to reassure himself that he could, in good conscience, accept no one with lesser skill as Ian's piano instructor. And ultimately he had deferred any decision about the existence of the fetchingly controlled Greenlander in the lives of Ian Nottingham and himself. He had simply made certain arrangements, issued certain directives (among those on his staff that could control such things), that she was to be around as little as possible, her distracting exterior no match, he had found, for her enigmatic, kept-private interior.

He could not take chances having such a woman be in contact with young Nottingham; at thirteen just now entering the most volatile stage thus-far in his carefully planned and overseen development. Beautiful, intelligent, intoxicatingly exotic women in close proximity to the boy were not a risk that, as the boy's benefactor, he was prepared to take.

The schedule created was simple enough. She was to give Ian his weekly piano lesson (to Irons' own specifications and under the careful watch of his own eye), and then she was to leave.

Irons tried now to envision a scenario in which she would feel compelled to decline his offer of hospitality for the night.

But she had accepted. Which changed the tenor of the evening to come entirely. There were things to be done, decisions at which to arrive, a new dinner menu to require and co-ordinate, plans to change, calls to be made and e-mails to be sent. Three meetings alone to be cancelled.

In short, her simple, "thank you," reply to his invitation turned Valhalla's behind-the-scenes on its very ear. Yet, "I shall have a room prepared for you. The Roosevelt, I think," was his only response, not a care or concern showing anywhere on his placid face. "Dinner is served at seven," he had said. "We assemble in the Great Room for aperitifs at six forty. If you like I will have someone sent up to help you dress."

She had declined the offer of assistance. "How many are we?" she asked, he head tilting slightly to the right as she inclined an ear to his response.

"A small dinner," he answered. "No guests, beyond ourselves." He could see that she was surprised. Doubtless she was used to dinner invitations extended to show her off, becoming more the entertainment than the entertained. The lines around her eyes hinted at her momentary, pleasant disbelief.

"Will Ian be dining with us?" she asked.

No, Irons thought, keeping his displeasure at bay. No, Ian dines alone, at five-thirty. That is the way things are done. Ian is a boy. And not a boy for frivolous dinner parties. But he answered, "If you like," with the beginning of a slight smile, and an inclination of his head in feigned accord.

...to be continued...

2002 (c) Neftzer