The way the old woman laughed before he even turned her.
The expectation of joy.
Clara wondered what it felt like to assume somebody would catch you because they always had.
“You’re sitting in the worst place.”
The male voice came from her right.
Clara turned.
A man stood beside the trellis.
Young.
Maybe twenty-five.
Tall enough that Clara had to tilt her head slightly upward even from the chair.
He wore a dark navy suit that fit his athletic frame perfectly, but nothing about him looked self-conscious or polished in the way wealthy gala guests often did. His brown hair was slightly too long in front. His gray-blue tie sat half an inch crooked.
He held two glasses of sparkling water.
Clara glanced around.
“Were you talking to me?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you agree this is the worst place.”
She looked at the trellis.
“I like roses.”
“The roses are fine.”
“Then what’s wrong with it?”
He handed her one of the glasses without asking.
“The violinist keeps blocking your view.”
Clara accepted the drink.
“You came over here because you’re worried about my sightline?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I came over because I’ve spent fourteen minutes trying to decide how to introduce myself without sounding like I rehearsed it.”
That surprised a laugh out of her.
“Fourteen?”
“Approximately.”
“That’s disturbing.”
“I know.”
He extended one hand.
“Julian Carter.”
“Clara Bennett.”
They shook.
His handshake was normal.
That was the first thing she noticed.
He did not crouch.
Did not bend awkwardly.
Did not squeeze her fingers as though she were fragile.
He simply stood there and met her eyes.
“Are you with the foundation?” Clara asked.
“My aunt is.”
“So you were forced to come.”
“Violently.”
“How?”
“She threatened to introduce me to every single unmarried daughter of every donor if I stayed home.”
Clara glanced toward the crowd.
“That might still happen.”
“I’m hiding.”
“With me?”
“You looked unapproachable.”
She lifted an eyebrow.
“Thank you?”
“It was a compliment.”
“You should practice those too.”
Julian smiled.
Across the lawn, a woman in a lavender gown called his name.
Julian immediately stepped partly behind Clara’s chair.
Clara stared.
“You’re serious.”
“My aunt.”
The woman looked around, failed to see him, then walked away.
Julian emerged.
Clara shook her head.
“You’re twenty-five.”
“How do you know?”
“Your emotional maturity.”
“Cruel.”
“You started it.”
The quartet changed songs.
A soft waltz.
The older couple returned to the floor.
Julian watched them for several seconds.
Then looked down at Clara.
She knew what was coming before he moved.
That knowledge tightened something inside her.
Please don’t.
She had been enjoying him.
She did not want the conversation to become about her chair.
Julian held out his hand.
“Would you dance with me?”
Clara stared at it.
The garden seemed to become quieter even though nothing around them changed.
She looked up.
“Is that a joke?”
“No.”
“You know I use a wheelchair.”
“I noticed.”
Clara’s expression hardened.
“Then why would you ask me that?”