Chapter 2

The conservatory was a cathedral of glass and greenery, the late evening light bleeding through the paned roof in ribbons of amber and rose. String lights crisscrossed the ceiling, their warm glow catching the condensation on the chilled Champagne flutes, making each glass look like it held liquid gold. The long table had been set for ten, draped in white linen, centered with overflowing arrangements of hydrangeas and trailing ivy that brushed against the silverware. It was beautiful. It was romantic. And it was the most dangerous room I had ever sat in. I was wedged between Tiffany, the bride's college roommate, and an empty chair that had been saved for Paul, the best man who was still wrestling with the cork on a bottle of Veuve. Across the table, three seats down, sat my father. Arthur Vance. His white linen shirt was rolled at the sleeves, exposing the corded forearms I had memorized an hour ago on the terrace. He was laughing at something the maid of honor said, his head tilted back, his teeth white against the stubble on his jaw. He looked relaxed. Approachable. A handsome man enjoying a summer dinner with his daughter and her friends.