Page 42 of Made

“So, green is your color,” I told Esme. The last thing I expected was a blush. Who would’ve thought Esme had a blush in her?

“Thank you,” she said.

I turned my attention to Kagan. “I like the tartan you’re wearing, brother-in-law. Is it Black Watch?”

It wasn’t entirely social chit-chat. I love tartan plaids and try to associate them with names or at least clans.

“Es designed it,” he said. “She named it Sephalion Dress.” That was perhaps the most words I’d ever heard Kagan speak at once. He punctuated the sentence with a tiny twitch of his mouth, as if it might be a joke. I was afraid to laugh because it mightnotbe a joke. More context, please.

Esme was smiling proudly. I said, “I’m not surprised by your creativity, but you’ve outdone yourself. Does this mean that all three sephalia get to use the pattern?”

“It was a gift to Kagan.” She looked up at him lovingly in a way that made me want to tease her with a Valley Girl two-finger gag. I restrained the fifteen-year-old me and kept my socially passive smile in place. “So, it’s up to him.”

When I looked toward Kagan, he shrugged. I took that to mean he didn’t care either way. The disengaged Kagan was the Kagan I was used to.

Jarvis appeared at the threshold of the drawing room carrying an actual crystal bell. When it rang, the crowd quieted. It was like magic, except for the fact that it workedeverytime.

“Dinner is served,” he announced.

Leaning toward Keir, I said under my breath, “Thank the stars. I’m starving.”

Doing a quick replay of my day, I realized why. I’d had a light breakfast but forgot lunch amidst the frenzy of finishing the Yule decorating of my house and getting ready for the party. Fortunately, there was enough ambient sound to disguise stomach noises.

It seemed that John David made a game of trying to make each party more spectacular than the last. That included the menu. I wondered which world-renowned chef he’d brought in this time. I wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. The vampire always brought the food architect to the dining room, excuse me, I meant to say, “Ambassador Room,” and introduced him between entrée and dessert courses.

John David had seated Diarmuid at the other end of the table so as not to appear more important. Keir sat across from me at table center. He was between Molly and Ivy. I was between Fie and Jeff.

We began with an oyster mushroom bisque. That was followed by Caesar salad made tableside by five sous chefs. The main course was blackened salmon smothered with shrimp and scallops, topped with a barely-there-mild Creole sauce, served with lime jasmine rice. Beautiful to look at. Good enough for seconds. In fact, I wasn’t able to curb my appetite enough to save room for dessert.

As predicted, before we learned what dessert would be, John David brought out Jean Etienne La Rouse, whom he’d flown in from New Orleans. A surprising, but delightful and innovative, choice.

After a respectable round of applause, Diarmuid stood, holding his Lismore tall claret glass, and said, “My wife and I would like to offer a toast to our host and the cooks. There’s been no finer dinner in memory. To warm company and hot food!”

With laughter, we all shouted, “Warm company and hot food!”

Proud of my son-in-law for putting everyone at ease with the best toast ever, I clinked glasses with Fie and Jeff, then caught Keir’s eye before I drank. I raised my glass to him. He mirrored my gesture, but added the sexiest wink a married woman was ever lucky enough to catch. How could I have ever thought I might not tell the difference between Keir and Kagan? Even if Kagan had ratcheted unpleasantness down a couple of notches, he was no Keir.

When I heard oohs and ahs, I knew dessert had arrived.

The five sous chefs arrived tableside carrying round trays laden with choices. What would I have? Key lime pie? Seven-layer chocolate cake? A trio of sorbets? Crème brûlée cheesecake? Or fruit tart?

Gods. Why did I eat too much?Just when I was about to curse my host who’d just become my tormentor-in-chief, he announced, “Don’t worry if you want more than one or want a wee-hour snack. Tonight’s party favor is a dessert selection box to go. Merry Yule!”

I got to my feet to lead a standing ovation. “Bravo!” I shouted. “Merry Yule!”

I would’ve appeared ridiculous except for Evie and Esme, who proved they were crew with the Good Rita seal of solidarity. Even though they were laughing at me, they stood (with difficulty in Evie’s case) and applauded. Every girl should have peeps so loyal they’ll volunteer to save your dignity by sacrificing their own.

Providing further confirmation that I’m so lucky to live in Hallow Hill, within seconds, all the guests were enjoying taking a break from the most civilized of dining experiences to participate in a rowdy show of appreciation.

When we’d all settled down and reseated ourselves, John David said, “You’re most welcome. I knew that dessert has adevoted following, but this reaction has exceeded expectations by kilometers.”

We lingered for a quarter hour to top off our conversations with coffee or brandy or both. I refused coffee from the pot, but left the server confused when I insisted on keeping the cup. When I caught Evie’s attention, I pointed at the empty vessel. Her face lit up like she was the one who’d enjoy the pleasure of conjuring a custom-made Americano in my cup.

When I looked down, the cup was full and steaming. I put my hands together as a silent expression of thanks and added a head bow. Probably not much of a thrill for her now that she’s used to bowing. By almost everyone.

Filtering out, on the way to the grand staircase, I passed Diarmuid locked in conversation with Fie over some aspect of small city government. I’d just placed a heel on the bottom step when Esme locked arms with me. As we climbed to the second-floor ballroom, Keir and Kagan followed a couple of steps behind.

“So,” I said. “The two of you look happy as two peas in a pod.”

---