Read Online Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) by Joseph Monninger - Free Book Online Page B

and the lighting. Someone had given great thought to the lighting and managed to work small ponds of illumination into an otherwise overly large banquet room, and the resulting effect was intimate and appealing. One could imagine stopping anywhere beside a light and having a conversation, even a romantic exchange, but the larger flow of the room made such potential moments only part of the evening. The music controlled much of the atmosphere in the ballroom, and Margaret delighted to see the burgundy jackets, the gleaming instruments, and the serious indifference with which many of the band members played. They were pros, obviously, and they had doubtless played these standards countless times before, but now and then a moment of genuine pleasure and virtuosity jumped out and took possession of the musicians, and then the band played with more enthusiasm and relish, and the dancers responded. Margaret particularly liked that the ball had no spokesperson, no planned agenda. No one tapped a glass or demanded the group’s attention. It was very French, she felt, to give over the night to music and dance and drink and require nothing of the attendees. It should be a rule, she decided, to require nothing of guests except their own pleasure. That was something she would definitely tell Blake.
    â€œSo,” Charlie said, arriving with two glasses of white wine and a small plate of appetizers, “are you taking it all in? You’re not planning to run off at midnight, are you?”
    â€œOh, Charlie, it’s wonderful. It’s a beautiful event. I’m glad you persuaded me to come.”
    â€œCan you grab one of these wines, please? I ran into a fellow I knew and he insisted we try this food. He called it
amuse-bouche
. He’s a Frenchie.”
    â€œWhat is it?” Margaret asked, taking one of the wines. “Did he say?”
    â€œPâté of some sort. I didn’t listen very closely. I wanted to get back here to you.”
    â€œWell, when in Rome . . .”
    â€œOr Paris. But first a toast to your husband. To Thomas Kennedy.”
    â€œTo Thomas,” Margaret said and touched her glass to his.
    â€œHere’s how,” Charlie said as she sipped. “How’s the wine?”
    â€œFrench, I’m guessing. It’s good. It tastes sweet, but not too much.”
    â€œTry one of these appetizers. You need to lead the way.”
    She tasted what looked like a spring roll. It crumbled a little as she bit into it. The pastry gave way and underneath it Margaret tasted a dark, tangy meat with an odd consistency. She didn’t much care for it, but she held it while Charlie sampled a different one.
    â€œWhat do you think?” she asked.
    â€œNot a fan.”
    â€œI’m a complete peasant when it comes to food, I’m sorry to say. Pot roast is exotic for me.”
    â€œI bet you’re a good cook. Here, put that back on the plate and we’ll just drink wine. Is that okay? Maybe we can grab something a little later. The buffet table was jammed.”
    She put her half-eaten appetizer back on the plate, and Charlie managed to hand the plate to a passing busboy. It was a relief to be without something to juggle, Margaret decided. She took another sip of wine and found it excellent. It tasted of dry barrels and something bright and sharp that stung the tip of her tongue a little.
    â€œHow do you like the band?” Charlie asked.
    â€œVery much. I like seeing the musicians playing. I realized it’s been a while since I was around live music. It’s not like going to a rock show when you’re a kid . . . all those strobe lights and stage theatrics. You can actually see the musicians and watch their faces turn red when they blow hard on their trumpets. That fellow over there . . . the one with the mustache . . . he’s quite dedicated to his instrument.”
    â€œAnd the clarinetist. Do you think people end