The Man Behind the Mask. Barbara Wallace

smile was almost sheepish, so boyishly winsome, her insides turned soft and warm. How could she say no?

      Ten minutes later, she sat in a bamboo fan chair waiting on a glass of white wine. Being close to the water must have inspired the hotel decorator to try a Caribbean theme. With its potted palms and soft calypso music, the verandah bar resembled a tropical hideaway. A New England version anyway. Paper lanterns strung on wires swayed in the ocean breeze. Being a Thursday night, the room was only partially full, mostly small groups of professionals visiting the city on business. She and Simon were the only couple in the crowd.

      Only they weren’t a couple, she reminded herself. Just employer and employee sitting in a romantic moonlit setting.

      She searched around, looking for a distraction. To her left, Boston Harbor stretched black, red and green lights guiding boats to the Atlantic. More lights dotted the horizon, the runway markers for Boston’s airport. Delilah watched as a line of planes made their way to their descent. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the waiter return.

      Simon slid her wine across the table toward her, then raised his whiskey in the air. The gesture forced her attention back to him. Not that she needed much force, seeing how she hadn’t completely stopped paying attention.

      “To getting through dinner,” he said.

      Delilah frowned at his choice of words. “Wouldn’t we be better off toasting to success?”

      “That depends on your definition of success.”

      “You don’t think tonight went well?”

      “Are you talking about before or after I dumped cabernet all over my tenderloin?” He took a long, healthy drink before speaking again. “I think we can both agree, I’ve had better performances.”

      “It wasn’t that bad. You recovered nicely,” she added, when Simon arched his eyebrow.

      “The idea is to not have to recover at all. Not with an account this size.”

      “Jim Bartlett didn’t appear too concerned.”

      Holding his tumbler by its base, he studied the contents of his half-full glass. “Didn’t your mother tell you appearances can be deceiving?”

      Her mother had been too consumed by grief to teach her much of anything. “So, what do we do?”

      “Nothing.” He set the glass down with a resounding thunk. “What’s done is done. We start over better and stronger in the morning.”

      “Well then we really should be drinking to putting tonight behind us,” she told him.

      “Funny. I thought we were.” He raised his glass. “To better tomorrows.”

      “To better tomorrows,” Delilah repeated.

      They clinked their glasses and Simon tossed back the rest of his drink. Inspired, Delilah took a healthy sip of her own, hoping the crisp dry liquid would help shake off her concerns.

      “Funny how you and Josh Bartlett both went to the same prep school,” she remarked, still in the past but at least changing the subject. “What are the odds?”

      “Better than you’d think. Sadly, the prep school world is surprisingly small.” Either she was imagining things or there was a new edge to his voice. Hard to say since Simon had turned to signal the waitress and she couldn’t see his face.

      “You said you didn’t know him though.” Details of their dinner conversation came back. “Jim mentioned some kind of hazing scandal? Do you know what he was talking about?”

      “It was nothing.”

      Okay, there was definitely a change in tone. A newly acquired clip to his words. “Really? Because the way he spoke...”

      “I said it was nothing,” he snapped. “Stupid kid stuff is all. Certainly not worth the attention everyone’s giving the subject.”

      For nothing he certainly reacted strongly enough. “So, the fact you didn’t know Josh, is that why... Never mind.” The wine, added to the glass and a half she drank at dinner, had loosened her tongue.

      “Finish your thought, Delilah.”

      “Well...” She played with the stem of her glass. “I wondered why you didn’t make a bigger deal out of the coincidence, the two of you attending the school, I mean. Didn’t you tell me the key to good small talk is to find common ground?”

      “I also said to encourage people to talk about themselves.”

      “Wouldn’t this have encouraged conversation? Shared experiences and all that?”

      “There are very few experiences from prep school that I wish to remember.”

      “You didn’t enjoy high school?”

      “Let’s say I prefer to treat high school as though the four years never happened and leave it at that.”

      His comment surprised her. She’d always assumed Simon ruled whatever kingdom he entered.

      Rather than push her luck by asking more, she changed the subject. “I suppose everyone has parts of high school they’d like to forget,” she said. “Personally I wouldn’t mind blocking out the tenth grade ring dance.”

      “What happened at the tenth grade ring dance?”

      “I caught Bobby McKenzie making out with another girl.”

      “Doesn’t sound so horrible.”

      “He was my date.”

      “I stand corrected.”

      The conversation paused as the waiter returned with their drinks. “You seemed to rebound well enough.” Simon continued after the man retreated. “Or are you still carrying a torch for the late great Bobby McKenzie?”

      “Oh, I’m definitely over him.” Hopefully her cheeks weren’t as warm as they felt.

      “Glad to hear it.”

      “Still doesn’t mean I don’t want to forget the humiliation. When you’re fifteen years old, being publicly dumped can be very traumatic.”

      Simon raised his drink, the glass masking both his tone and his expression. “Trust me, there are far more traumatic things that can happen.”

      No kidding, thought Delilah. Try losing your father and having your mother turn into a ghost. If only she could forget those years.

      “Clearly you were never a fifteen-year-old girl. I was certain Bobby was ‘the one.’” That was her mother’s fault, too, in a way. “I spent the whole year practicing my married signature. Delilah McKenzie. Mrs. Bobby McKenzie. Over and over, with little hearts over the i’s. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson...”

      “What lesson?”

      “Did I really just say that aloud?” No need wondering if she was blushing this time. Her cheeks were on fire. She pushed her wine to the side. “No more wine for me.”

      “You still haven’t said what lesson you learned.”

      Not to wear her heart on her sleeve, of course. “If you cover your notebook with stupid doodles, you’ll be forced to look at them all year long. I had to stare at those foolish hearts for six more months.”

      He chuckled in to his drink. “At least you didn’t get a tattoo. You could still be staring at them.”

      “Thank goodness for small favors. Can you imagine? I always wondered what people did when they were stuck with a tattoo they no longer wanted.”

      “They get it removed.”

      Delilah shuddered. “Talk about a painful way of forgetting your mistakes.”

      He turned to look out at the water, leaving her to study his profile. Shadows, cast