Free Tiffany Girl by Deeanne Gist

break up the monotony of her afternoons. It had nothing to do with dinner.
    Still, rather than create a scene, he escorted her to her seat and held out her chair. Miss Jayne had not only put her across from Oyster, but had placed her next to Mr. Nettels, a condescending music master who disparaged everyone else to make himself look better. The poor woman was going to have a miserable dinner.
    After giving her a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder, he went in search of his place card. It had chickadees painted on it, of all things. He hated chickadees. They made the most obnoxious noise and once they got going, never ceased chattering.
    Settling into his chair, he spread his napkin on his lap and glanced at the new table arrangement. She’d placed everyone boy-girl, boy-girl and stuck him beside her roommate, with the house’s newlyweds assigned to sit across from him. He’d be subjected to their ridiculous billing and cooing the entire meal.
    Mr. Holliday, a man of forty who’d recently taken a girl of sixteen to wife, seated his wife and gave her arm a gentle pat. Miss Jayne sat in the middle, where she could preside over the table. She’d piled her mountain of black hair atop her head in the haphazard way Charles Gibson had made famous with his numerous pen-and-ink drawings. Her brown eyes and ready smile might hypnotize everyone else at the table, but not him.
    “While we pass the bread,” she said, “I thought it might be nice if we played a little game.”
    He eyed her. She could not possibly be serious.
    “Beneath everyone’s plate is a question written on a slip of paper.”
    Mr. Oyster reached for his plate.
    “Wait, wait!” She touched his arm. “No peeking. Not until you know the rules.”
    To her left, Mr. Holliday held the bread basket up to her in a wordless question. She gave a genteel nod. “Yes, please.”
    He placed a roll on her plate, then sent the basket past her to Mr. Oyster.
    “During the course of dinner,” she continued, “we will take turns reading the questions beneath our plates. But the question you read is not for you, it’s for the person across from you. That way, you can’t cheat and formulate an answer while no one is looking.”
    Several in the group chuckled. Reeve shifted his position on the unfamiliar lumps of an unfamiliar chair. Looking at her husband, the young Mrs. Holliday clapped her hands together. The man gave her an affectionate smile and chucked her under the chin.
    “Mr. Wilder?” Miss Jayne drew his attention. “Why don’t you start us off, then we’ll go all the way around the table.”
    All eyes turned to him. Heat rushed up his neck. “I mean no disrespect, Miss Jayne, but—”
    From the corner of his eye, Mrs. Holliday’s expression crumpled. He realized with a start it was her question he’d be reading, for she sat directly opposite him.
    Sighing, he wiped a hand on his napkin, then withdrew the piece of paper from beneath his plate. Its borders were painted with tiny figures. Two were in a toboggan. Two were having a snowball fight. One was making a snow angel. And in the bottom corner, a couple skated across a frozen pond.
    The paintings were simple, but charming. Almost childlike.
    “Mr. Wilder?” Miss Jayne prompted.
    He cleared his throat. “Yes. Right. So . . .” He looked at Mrs. Holliday. “What is your favorite winter activity?”
    Her mouth made a tiny O. Her wide blue eyes sought her husband’s. “Oh, my. There’s so many to choose from. I’m simply not sure. Let me see . . . I guess I’d pick ice-skating?”
    Miss Jayne’s expression lit. “Truly? That’s my favorite, too.” She looked around the table. “Does anyone else like to skate?”
    Not knowing what to do with the paper, Reeve tucked it inside his jacket, only listening with one ear as the others answered in the affirmative. Though he’d grown up in New Jersey and had had a pond directly behind his house, he’d never actually skated—not because he