Part 1: Under the Table

“Careful with the sandwich,” a man's voice said. “And could you move your knee?”

I froze beneath the banquet table. I had crawled under the ivory tablecloth to escape another introduction arranged by my mother. I had not expected to find anyone already sitting on the carpet.

The man wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and held half a chicken sandwich. His dark hair was untidy, and he looked as startled as I felt.

“You know there are chairs outside,” I whispered.

“And yet here you are.”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. I pulled the tablecloth down. The man watched the movement with an expression of professional concern.

“Running from someone?” he asked.

“My mother.”

He nodded. “Mine too.”

My name is Claire Hart. I am thirty-two, own a small architectural lighting studio, and have spent the last four years explaining to my mother that I do not need her to arrange a husband. She had brought me to a charity gala and announced that a very suitable man was waiting near the dessert table. I had smiled, excused myself, and found the empty banquet room.

The stranger offered me the other half of his sandwich. I declined until he assured me it had not been on the carpet. He broke it carefully and handed me a piece on a napkin.

“I'm Julian,” he said. “I run a restoration company. My mother thinks a gala is an efficient place to introduce me to strangers.”

“Claire. Mine calls it helping.”

“Mine calls it a plan.”

Two women's voices approached the doorway. Julian lifted the edge of the cloth just enough to look. I recognized my mother's shoes and a second pair with bright silver buckles.

“They can't still be arguing about the lease,” the second woman said.

“They can if you keep the old letter from Claire,” my mother replied.

Julian and I looked at each other. My mother had never mentioned a lease or a letter involving me. I had come to the gala expecting an uncomfortable introduction, not a conversation about documents I had never seen.

The women moved farther into the room. My mother said the lighting studio should not be affected by an old dispute. The other woman said her son deserved to know what their mothers had agreed years earlier.

Julian set down the sandwich. “I think that's about my company.”

Before I could ask why, the tablecloth lifted. My mother stared at us. Julian's mother stood beside her, holding a folder.

For a moment no one spoke. Then my mother said, “Claire, you were supposed to meet someone.”

“I did,” I said. “We were discussing sandwiches.”

Julian crawled out first and offered me a hand. I accepted it, then brushed the carpet from my dress. His mother looked at the folder as though considering whether to hide it behind her back.

“What letter?” I asked.

My mother and Julian's mother exchanged a glance. The charity auction began in the next room, and applause rose through the doorway.

“We should talk privately,” Julian's mother said.

I looked around the empty banquet room. “We already are.”