Page 73 of Hushed

She smiles again at me. “Of course.”

I offer her a canapé and think, I hope you fucking choke.

Chapter twenty-five

Bastien

By the time lunch is on the table, I’ve had just enough wine to take the edge off and possibly a little bit more than that. There are so many people in my townhouse that Levi had to borrow chairs from neighbors I’ve never met, and I’m fairly certain my dining room has never held this many bodies before.

Molly’s been relentlessly cheerful, God bless her. Between her and Delphine and, to an extent, the very timid and anxious Tracey Ripple, whom I never really talked to before today, this whole event has been almost enjoyable. Almost.

I sit at the head of the table because that’s what you do when you’re the host, even though I feel like a fraud. Levi takes the seat to my right, positioning himself with his back to the kitchen so he can duck out if something needs attending. Delphine has claimed the seat directly across from him, which I notice has irritated Julia for reasons I don’t fully understand. Something about precedence, maybe. Academic politics are exhausting.

“This smells good,” Molly says as Levi brings out the tourtière.

“It’s all Levi,” I say, and I mean it. “I’m hopeless in the kitchen.”

Nell Hughes surveys the spread with that particular expression that suggests she’s cataloging deficiencies. “I would have thought we would have had poutine at least. We’ve heard so much about it that I was expecting it.”

I look at Levi. “Qu’est-ce que je t’avais dit? Mais non, t’as voulu faire à ta tête,” I say, tapping my head. I want it to sound like I’m teasing but it kind of sounds a little bitchy.

Levi smiles at the people gathered around our table. “So, ladies and gentlemen, this is what ‘I told you so’ sounds like in French.”

There are a few awkward chuckles, but the ice doesn’t break. They lapse into an awkward silence.

Molly, who has positioned herself next to Levi, takes a bite. “Well, it is very good. Compliments to the chef. Do you speak a lot of French at home?”

“More franglais,” Levi says. “Shopping lists are in whatever language he was thinking in at the time, so that makes it a fun little guessing game.”

I take a bite of the tourtière and it’s perfect, even though he had to use Google Translate to get it done. “He often manages to surprise me,” I say, and come dangerously close to adding that I fully intend to surprise him the moment these people leave.

Julia takes one bite and sets down her fork. Delphine takes seconds and pours wine liberally, which I appreciate because it makes my own consumption look moderate by comparison. Tracey makes little moaning noises.

I reach under the table and squeeze Levi’s hand. He squeezes back.

“You must have been awfully lonely coming here with no family or friends,” Nell says, turning to me with that society-matron smile. “I have some friends at our church that I’m sure you’d love. They’d be a little more your speed, and that would give Levi a chance to make friends on his own.”

I feel the sting of it—more your speed, as if I’m somehow not adequate for the company I’m currently keeping. As if my foreignness is showing. But I’ve had enough wine to let it slide.

“Thank you,” I say, loading my fork. “But honestly, I think we’re fine. Levi has a veterans’ group he was talking about going to, and I’ve been so busy with research and grading that I just don’t have time.”

“I’ve heard you’re putting your hat in the ring for the Kirkfield Grant,” Lincoln Preston says. “Very competitive, but I’ve won it enough times in a row that I suppose I can give you tips on how to butter up the committee.” He takes a sip of his wine, and his glance flickers over to Levi. “You work with children, right?”

I frown. That’s an odd question. My research is nothing remotely related to children. And what’s more, he knows that. We’ve had this conversation before. I’m about to correct him when Levi’s foot presses firmly against mine under the table.

I glance at him. His face is neutral, pleasant, but the pressure on my foot is insistent. Don’t engage.

“Can I have the recipe for this? It’s just divine,” Tracey Ripple says from the end of the table, and I’m grateful for the interruption because it pulls me away from having to contemplate through the wine fug what Lincoln Preston just said. Wait, did he suggest Levi is a child?

“It’s my paternal grandmother’s recipe—or at least, my mother’s interpretation of it,” I say. “I think she would get a little upset with it leaving the family circle.”

Levi straightens a little and smiles at his plate in undisguised pride. “Well, your mom did have a lot of very specific instructions,” he adds. “I think the one about only seasoning the meat on the second full moon of the year was a little excessive, so I did skip that one.”

“You’re lucky,” I add. “I was preparing to order a pizza and buy a sheet cake at the store. But he was the one who insisted we weren’t having bar food.”

“I would have,” Delphine says, leaning back. “It’s a monstrous tradition, designed to oppress those least able to say no.”

“We all know what you think, Delphine,” Hughes grinds out.