Page 44 of Denying Davis
And how I just wanted my old life to end.
The dining room was awash in low light and a large pink-and-white-peony arrangement. A long table in the center of the room had two place settings on the end, and the elegant sideboard featured a large silver tea service. A large painting hung above the sideboard.
“It’s a Picasso,” Davis said when he noticed me admiring it.
“It’s beautiful.” As if I would have made any other comment. “From his blue period, I can see.”
“You know a lot of about Picasso?”
“Enough. Most people like his cubism, but I think his post-impressionism works are the best ones. He did one calledLe Moulin de la Galettethat is my favorite.”
“Grandad got into his work a few years ago.” Davis moved closer to me. “I’ve never been a huge admirer of Picasso’s work; it’s not my type of painting. I prefer pop art. Warhol, etc.”
“Do you collect any?”
“I have a few pieces.”
“Warhol is interesting.” I looked away, as a pang of regret twisted my stomach. “I minored in art history at Florida State. Mom said it was frivolous, but I like how art and historical events dovetail together. I like the way people express what is happening around them.” I regarded the Picasso again. “He was so angry during this time in his life. You can almost feel it radiating off the canvas.”
“You need to finish your degree,” Davis replied, and put a hand on my arm. “Someone like you deserves to get one. Promise me you’ll go back.”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged my arm out of his grasp.
“That’s why I want you to take the money,” Davis said. “You need it, and it’s a worthy investment.”
I scoffed. For a smart man, Davis was a little clueless. No one gave away money for free. There had to be a catch, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what it was.
“No, listen to me.” His voice turned firmer. “I know how to make good investments. It’s in my blood. And you are a good investment, Samantha. You always have been.”
He made a move like he wanted to embrace me in front of the painting, but I stepped away from him when I saw a butler arrive in the doorway.
The staffer cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Armstrong, but Chef Stuart has advised that dinner is ready at your convenience.”
“Of course.” Davis let out a small laugh. “Shall we?”
We sat at the enormous table, and the butler served the first course, a pear and endive salad with a glass of pinot grigio. Davis offered a toast then dug into the mixed greens with gusto. I stared at my plate.
“What’s the matter?” Davis asked after his second bite. “Don’t tell me you have something against lettuce.”
“No, I”—emotion caught in my throat—“it’s just that this looks too good to eat.” I caught his gaze with mine. “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything arranged so beautifully.”
He glanced at the salad. “Stuart does do a remarkable job. It’s funny how often I forget it.”
“It looks like he cut every piece of this lettuce by hand.”
“Probably. He’d do something like that.”
“Well, it’s beautiful.”
“Wait until you see what he does with scallops.” Davis ate another bite. “He’s a master for a reason.”
“Can’t wait.” I hesitated then picked up the outside fork at my place setting. Once, a long time ago, I’d watched a movie where the hero was taught to start from the outside and work his way in when it came to be eating a meal with several courses. From working at Haute Holidays, I’d filed that tidbit away in my mind, and I was grateful to have use for it. I peeked at Davis’s plate. He’d chosen his outside fork too.
Whew.
I speared a small bite of the salad and ate my first mouthful. He was right. It tasted unlike any salad I’d ever had. The lettuce complemented the pears and apples in a perfect balance, and the light vinaigrette dressing gave a sweet and sugary spice to the dish. I could have shoved the entire serving in my mouth—I didn’t want to waste any of it.
But I didn’t. Doing so would only show Davis I was woefully outside his gilded world.
