18.

Roman

The chill of the steering wheel seeps into my wrists as I tap out a message to Ava, offering her a ride. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since our last encounter, but I am eager to see her.

After a moment, her response flashes on my screen. She’s already en route to the Martins’. Typical Ava, always one step ahead. And perhaps she’s still a bit bitter about that meeting with Dr. Johns. At least we’re heading to the same destination.

When I arrive at the Martins’ stately home, the rain paints glossy streaks down my windshield. I step out of the car quickly, just as Ava steps out of hers. Our timing is in sync, even if we aren’t. We exchange a nod as we dash for the door, and despite the rain, Julia insists on showing us the back porch.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Julia beams, gesturing toward the expansive view of the sound beyond her backyard. “Even when the weather is gray, the water never disappoints.”

She’s right. The rain can’t diminish the splendor. Instead, it adds a sheen to the scene, making the gray waters glisten. “Stunning,” I agree, sensing Ava’s presence. She stands close but not too close, her eyes scanning the horizon.

After a moment, Julia directs us back inside. “Let me introduce you to Rhonda Taylor from Tasty Dish Catering,” she says. “She’s going to make your fundraiser a night to remember.”

Rhonda steps forward as we enter the dining room, her handshake firm and her smile welcoming. “It’s a pleasure. I’ve worked with Julia before, and I must say, this Great Gatsby theme is going to be a hit.”

Rhonda hands us each a menu card, and my fingers brush against Ava’s as we take them. A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. I clear my throat, pretending the touch hasn’t affected me.

A Night Under the Stars

King George House Fundraiser

Tasting Menu Options

Featured Drinks

Classic Champagne Cocktail: A simple mix of champagne, a sugar cube, and bitters

Gin Rickey: A refreshing blend of gin, lime juice, and club soda

Mint Julep: A Southern staple made with bourbon, mint, sugar, and water

Sidecar: A sophisticated cocktail with brandy, orange liqueur, and lemon juice

Bee’s Knees: A sweet and tart mix of gin, honey, and lemon juice

Passed Appetizers

Deviled Eggs: Garnished with paprika and chives

Stuffed Mushrooms: Filled with a savory blend of cheese, garlic, and herbs

Shrimp Cocktail: Classic chilled shrimp served with a tangy cocktail sauce

Waldorf Salad: A mix of apples, celery, grapes, and walnuts in a mayonnaise dressing

Oysters Rockefeller: Oysters baked with a rich sauce of butter, parsley, and breadcrumbs

Soups

Lobster Bisque: A creamy and rich seafood soup

Tomato Soup: Served with a dollop of crème fra?che and fresh basil

Chicken Velvet Soup: A smooth, creamy chicken soup

French Onion Soup: Topped with a slice of toasted bread and melted Gruyère cheese

Pea Soup: Made with fresh peas, mint, and a hint of cream

Main Dishes

Beef Wellington: Tender beef wrapped in puff pastry

Chicken à la King: A creamy chicken dish served over rice

Grilled Lobster Tails: Served with melted butter and lemon wedges

Rack of Lamb: Herb-crusted and roasted to perfection

Vegetable Ratatouille: A flavorful and elegant vegetarian option

Desserts

Chocolate Fondue: Served with fruit and marshmallows for dipping

Crème Br?lée: A classic French dessert with a caramelized sugar top

Lemon Chiffon Cake: Light and airy with a zesty lemon flavor

Fruit Tart: A sweet pastry crust filled with cream and topped with fresh fruit

Baked Alaska: A show-stopping dessert of ice cream and cake covered in meringue and browned

“Here’s what I have in mind…” Rhonda gestures to the card. “I’ve gone through all the foods popular in the nineteen-twenties, and I selected these items as authentic and fun. You don’t have to choose all, or any, of these. But I do have samples of everything to try.”

I study the menu, impressed by her research. Then I glance at Ava, whose brow is furrowed in concentration. It’s the same look she wears during rounds, dissecting cases with precision.

“Rhonda, this is incredible,” Ava finally says. “You’ve captured the essence of the era.”

“Thank you,” Rhonda replies. “I believe every dish should tell a story that complements the theme.”

“Let’s get started, shall we?” I ask.

With a nod, Rhonda presents us each with a drink to sample.

“Classic Champagne Cocktail,” I say, reading from the menu card. “That’s timeless. Perfect for the Gatsby theme.”

Ava nods. “I agree. It’s elegant and not overly complicated. People love the familiar.” She takes a sip. “I think this is a yes.”

“Exactly.”

Rhonda beams at our decision, scribbling a note on her pad. “Let me demonstrate.” She reaches for a coupe glass—more like a bowl on a stem than a modern flute—in another nod to the 1920s. She drops in a single sugar cube before soaking it with bitters. Then with a skilled tilt of the bottle, she fills the glass with Champagne, causing the sugar to dissolve into a fizz that tickles my nose from across the table.

“Cheers,” she says, raising the glass to our samples.

“To successful planning,” Ava proposes.

“To new beginnings,” I counter, deliberately catching her gaze, seeking the softness I remember so well.

“The bartenders will be part of the theme as they’re mixing drinks,” Rhonda continues. “We’ll make everything as authentic as we can. That’s part of the fun.”

“Delightful,” Ava responds. Her lips curve into a smile after another sip, but her eyes don’t leave the golden liquid swirling in the glass. She’s guarded, still keeping the world, including me, at arm’s length.

Rhonda moves on, detailing the rest of the menu, but part of me remains stuck here, savoring this moment over a shared drink.

As we taste and sample, I watch Ava jot down notes, her brow furrowed in concentration, and I marvel at her resilience, her dedication. If only I could find the right words, the key to move us forward, back to where we once were. But I can’t erase my mistakes, nor change the unsteady ground we keep finding ourselves on, even as we strive to collaborate. It just takes time, I suppose. But I hope I don’t go mad in the process.

I glance out over the water past Julia’s back porch, the rain painting silvery streaks across the glassy surface. The view is breathtaking, a perfect backdrop for what promises to be an unforgettable event.

After a few more samples, Ava and I agree on offering all five drinks, which will be passed as people arrive, along with the appetizers, and will go a long way toward setting the mood and theme for the evening. Ava’s precise handwriting marks up Rhonda’s list as we continue.

“Soup or salad?” she asks, turning her gaze to the menu card once more.

I pick up a spoon and taste the rich tomato soup. “Definitely the soup,” I say, and she nods, scribbling on the paper.

“Tomato soup with green salad for balance,” she asserts after taking a few tastes herself. “And now for mains.”

“Beef Wellington has to be there,” I suggest. During residency she once confessed it was a dish she could never resist at a fancy event.

“Of course,” she concedes with a small smile.

“With Chicken à la King and the ratatouille, for additional choice,” I add, watching her for any sign of objection.

We taste a few more things, and then she nods. “Perfect.”

She turns to confirm all this with Rhonda, who assures us she’ll deliver the meal flawlessly.

“Cost per person?” Ava inquires.

“It’ll be a hundred dollars for the meal, not including drinks. We’ll also have house white or red wine at the tables,” Rhonda replies.

“Acceptable,” Ava states. She turns to me with a smile of relief. Having the menu set makes the event feel all the more real.

Before we can consider anything further, Tori breezes in, holding up an invitation with a flourish. The intricate design catches the light, art deco patterns promising a night of Gatsby-esque revelry.

“Sorry I can’t stay, but here’s what I’ve come up with,” Tori says, handing each of us an invitation. “And I’m working on gift bags. Each attendee will get a memento of the night.”

“Beautiful work, Tori,” I praise. This is practically a work of art.

“Thank you,” Ava agrees. “It sets just the right tone. This is so much better than what I did.”

“Yours was great, but this highlights our theme,” Tori says with a quick wave. “I’ll leave you to it,” she notes before exiting as swiftly as she arrived.

“Anything else on your mind?” I ask Ava once we’re alone in the dining room. I’m hoping for an opening, any chance to move beyond mere event planning.

“Plenty,” she admits, “but nothing that won’t keep until tomorrow.” Her eyes flick up to mine, a trace of vulnerability showing before she veils it once more.

Then Julia bustles in. “Here’s what we’ve secured for the silent auction,” she announces as she hands a sheet to Ava.

Ava takes it, and I lean closer to read over her shoulder. Box seats for the Vancouver Tigers seems impressive, but then my eyes snag on the weekend trip to a private island off the British Columbia coast—Farzad and Fatemeh Khalili’s island—and I whistle lowly. The Fairmont Pacific Rim suite and brunch at the Botanist are nothing to scoff at either, nor is the piece by Paisley Brooks Martin and work by a number of other artists.

“Julia, this is…incredible,” Ava breathes. She looks up, her eyes shimmering like the water beyond the glass doors, and then she does something I haven’t seen in years. She lunges forward and engulfs Julia in a hug. “Thank you,” she whispers, muffled against Julia’s shoulder. It’s a rare display of vulnerability, and it sends a pang through me. I want to be the one she turns to, the one to comfort her in her moments of overwhelming joy or fear.

“Of course, darling,” Julia responds, patting Ava’s back. “Anything for the cause.”

They part, and Ava brushes away a rogue tear, laughing at herself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get all emotional on you.”

“Ah, but Ava, there’s more,” Julia interjects.

“More?”

I mirror her astonishment. What else could there possibly be?

“Martin Communication, the Vancouver Tigers, Egval Limited Partners, and Drake Holdings Ltd. have all bought the highest-tier front tables. And their reasons are close to home. Their children are among our esteemed doctors.” Julia grins.

“Wait, they did what now?” Ava stammers.

My heart pounds, not just from the news but at seeing Ava so unguarded, so human.

“We’ve already exceeded last year’s fundraising amount,” Julia confirms with a satisfied nod.

“Wow.” That single syllable feels inadequate, but it’s all I can muster. Ava’s hand finds mine under the table, her grip tight. It’s a fleeting touch, unintentional perhaps, but it sends waves of warmth through me.

“Julia, that’s…that’s amazing,” I say, finally finding my voice. “Thank you doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Truly,” Ava adds. “We’re stunned. This will make such a difference.”

“Happy to help, but I just asked a few friends. You’ve done the lion’s share of the work,” Julia replies with a casual wave. “Now, let’s toast to a successful event, shall we?” In an instant, Rhonda has placed a cocktail in Julia’s hand.

“Absolutely.” I raise my coupe glass again, tapping it lightly against Ava’s, then Julia’s.

Our eyes meet over the rims, and there’s a question in Ava’s. Can we really pull this off?

“Here’s to exceeding expectations,” I say, hoping Ava will understand.

“Cheers,” she murmurs, and we drink to promises and newfound hope.

It’s well on the way to evening as Ava and I step out of Julia’s grand house, the lingering taste of success sweet on my tongue. I glance over at her, trying to gauge her thoughts.

“You did amazing today,” I tell her.

She nods, a small, satisfied smile curving her lips. “I’ll write everything up tonight. You’ll have it before your coffee brews.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I offer, already knowing she’s likely to refuse.

Ava shakes her head, her gaze fixed on the gravel path leading away from the porch. “No, I’ve got this. Thanks anyway.”

“Okay, just remember, you don’t have to do it all alone,” I remind her as we reach her car. “And I’ll make sure Dr. Johns realizes what you’ve done.”

“Goodnight,” she says with a soft smile, slipping into her vehicle.

“’Night, Ava,” I murmur, though she’s already closing her door.

Back at home, the familiar walls of my apartment welcome me, the memories hanging in frames more vocal than any greeting. I pause in front of one picture in particular—Ava and me during our residency. It feels like a different lifetime, yet the emotions are still raw, still real. I run a finger along the glass.

What am I going to do about you, Ava?

My mind races through possibilities, strategies to lower the defenses she’s built so meticulously around her heart. She’s guarded, yes, but not impenetrable. I can’t win her back by force or cunning, but I need to remind her of what we had, show her what we could have again.

I push aside the curtains, staring out into the night. The city lights flicker like distant stars, each one holding a story, a secret. Maybe ours is out there too, waiting to be rediscovered.

“Come on,” I whisper to myself. “Think.”

A soft sigh escapes me as I pull away from the window. She needs to know I’ve never stopped loving her, even when I was too foolish to show it.

“Three months,” I say aloud, the countdown to our fundraising event giving shape to my resolve. “Three months to show you.”

I grab a notebook and pen, jotting down thoughts, ideas, anything that might lead to a breakthrough. Line after line, page after page, until the ink starts to blur and my hand cramps. But it doesn’t matter. Because every word brings me closer to her, to us. And I won’t stop, not until those walls come down and she sees the truth in my eyes.

“Here’s to second chances,” I toast to the empty room, lifting an invisible glass. “To us.”