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I never thought I’d be so happy to see Rhett. He’s standing in the aisle with a seating attendant, hands on his hips and regal in his tuxedo.
His commanding tone causes a powerful reaction. Everyone freezes. Even Paul is brought to a halt.
“Well?” he repeats.
“This isn’t your seat,” Miranda attempts.
“Huh,” Rhett says. He gestures to the attendant for the list she’s holding. “Table One. Rhett Westing, seat six.” He makes an exaggerated show of looking at the table number. “I’m still not seeing the issue. Or why you’re having my colleague arrested for what is obviously your screwup.”
“I think you—” Paul starts.
Rhett talks right over him, as if he’s not even there. “This is obviously an internal issue that can be figured out in a more private setting.”
“But the Waltons—” Miranda also tries to get in.
“Can be seated somewhere else,” he says. “Tell me. Is there any specific reason the Waltons need to be seated here rather than anywhere else?”
Nobody can answer him.
“And I, for one, would like to start eating and get this fucking dinner over with. I’m sure there are more important problems all of you could be dealing with other than harassing Ms. Slate and myself.”
Paul Morgan inserts himself next to Rhett and begins hissing furiously in his ear things that I can’t hear over the din of the room but are certainly incredibly cutting. Rhett adopts an expression of boredom across his handsome features and even yawns loudly at one point. He catches me looking at him and winks.
Rhett’s resilience in the face of Paul’s anger is impressive. And also oddly attractive. This is the absolute worst time to be getting excited, but damn if cool-under-fire Rhett isn’t doing it for me. And that wink…
I’m lurched back to reality by Miranda. “I know what you two did earlier,” she says.
Finally figured it out, huh? I don’t say that, of course, though my expression could definitely be described as shit-eating.
“You know, Miranda,” I say, “these accusations are very disappointing. And here I thought we came so far earlier, that we reached a real understanding.”
She flushes at the memory, and how easily she fell for Rhett’s bullshit.
“Is that supposed to be fucking funny?” she spits, lunging into my face.
“Hey! Okay!” Selina interjects. “Why don’t we all just take a breath.”
“Don’t get involved, babe,” Colton mutters, probably wisely at the homicidal look on Miranda’s face.
“No! This is ridiculous! There’s enough seating for everyone. Just because—”
But Selina falls silent as another person joins the din, voicing the now familiar refrain hopefully for the last time: “What the heck is going on here?”
All of us — Rhett and Paul, Miranda and me, Selina and Colton, the security guards, Marmie, and the surrounding tables of onlookers — all turn as one to see the newest player on the scene. I recognize him immediately, but what surprises me most is that he’s alone.
Although, knowing what I know, Bill Alencar might need some distance from his wife at the moment.
“Mr. Alencar!” Miranda exclaims in relief. Finally here is the authority. He’s the Grand Poobah of this conference, and he’s put a metric fuck-load of cash into setting it up, presumably including paying Miranda’s salary.
“Could you please ask them to leave quietly,” she pleads, rushing up to him. “There was a mix-up with the seating and they’re refusing to go.”
I hold my breath. It’s the definitive moment, not just for the dinner but for the entire weekend.
But Bill doesn’t answer her question. He doesn’t even acknowledge Miranda specifically. Instead, looking at all of us, he says something not a single one of us could have predicted: “Have any of you ever seen Night of the Comet?”
There’s a beat of incredibly confused silence. Bill mistakes this bewilderment for a lack of knowledge about Night of the Comet.
“It’s a fantastic film,” he says. “Hilarious. Rhett and I were just watching it, and I would like to talk to him more about it, so if you could just shuffle whoever was supposed to be here to another table, it’d be greatly appreciated.”
