tall, dark-haired man stood
in front of us, holding in one hand a small plate emptiedof appetizers and in the other hand a piece of fluted stemware with some sort of pink beverage.
He wore rectangular-shaped glasses that gave him an English professor aura in a cool retro sort of way. He looked like the
young teacher-of-the-year sort of professor who could be living on a sailboat near Belize if he chose to but instead spent
his days shaping impressionable minds with the classics.
The person with whom he was chatting had just stepped away, making a natural opening for Katharine to move closer and make
the introductions.
“Edward, I would like you to meet someone. Miranda, this is our host, Edward Whitcombe.”
“Son of Sir James Whitcombe,” I added, without realizing I was drawing from my earlier conversation with Andrew in the car.
Edward tilted his head with a vague weariness. “Were you a fan, then?”
“A fan?”
“Of my father. Were you a fan of his work?”
I glanced out of the corner of my eye at Katharine, hoping for some sort of clue as to what Sir James did or why I should
be a fan. But she had turned to greet another guest, leaving me alone with my bumbling mess.
“I… I don’t know.”
Edward looked oddly humored by my response. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard that answer.”
I looked down at the uneaten crab puff on my plate and considered popping the whole thing in my mouth so I would be assured
of not speaking for at least thirty seconds.
Instead, I chose an unusual path for me, especially with strangers. I spoke the truth. Rather involuntarily, I might add.
“I’m from the US and… ” If my lack of British party manners hadn’t already given away that I was an outsider, I was sure my
American accent had. I tried another approach. “What I meant to say is that I’m not familiar with your father or his work.
So I don’t know if I’m a fan or not.”
“Is that right?”
I nodded. “I am familiar with his name only because of a few details Andrew and Katharine told me as we drove over here tonight.”
“And they didn’t tell you what my father did?”
I shook my head and offered a tiny smile, hoping my faux pas would be dismissed.
He nodded slowly. It was the kind of nodding motion one makes when thinking. He kept looking at my eyes the same way his wife,
Ellie, had tried to make eye contact with me at the theater.
I realized how jet-lagged I was and how much I could use a little freshening up before I tried to carry on a serious conversation
with anyone else in the room. At least if I wanted them to take me seriously. I reminded myself that my objective was to see
if any of these guests had a lead for me on the photograph.
For a fleeting second I considered asking Edward if I might show him the photo and ask for his input. But I felt off balance
and didn’t want to risk offending the “Founder of the Feast” by letting him know the only reason I was there was to carry
out some amateurish detective work.
Instead of continuing the conversation in any direction, normal or abnormal, I looked away from his questioning gaze. “Would
it be all right if I used your restroom?”
“Our restroom? Do you intend to have a rest?”
“Excuse me?”
“Were you asking if you might lie down to take a nap?”
“No. I would like to use the restroom… the bathroom… I want to wash up.”
“Oh, of course. The WC. It’s in the hallway, to the right of the stairs.”
“The what?”
“WC. Short for water closet, of course.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I turned to go, wondering how it could be that though we were both speaking English, neither of us understood
the other.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what my father did?” he asked.
I stopped and looked at him over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure of the proper way to respond, so I simply took the cue as if it
were a riddle. “What did your father do?”
With a hint of grin he
in front of us, holding in one hand a small plate emptiedof appetizers and in the other hand a piece of fluted stemware with some sort of pink beverage.
He wore rectangular-shaped glasses that gave him an English professor aura in a cool retro sort of way. He looked like the
young teacher-of-the-year sort of professor who could be living on a sailboat near Belize if he chose to but instead spent
his days shaping impressionable minds with the classics.
The person with whom he was chatting had just stepped away, making a natural opening for Katharine to move closer and make
the introductions.
“Edward, I would like you to meet someone. Miranda, this is our host, Edward Whitcombe.”
“Son of Sir James Whitcombe,” I added, without realizing I was drawing from my earlier conversation with Andrew in the car.
Edward tilted his head with a vague weariness. “Were you a fan, then?”
“A fan?”
“Of my father. Were you a fan of his work?”
I glanced out of the corner of my eye at Katharine, hoping for some sort of clue as to what Sir James did or why I should
be a fan. But she had turned to greet another guest, leaving me alone with my bumbling mess.
“I… I don’t know.”
Edward looked oddly humored by my response. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard that answer.”
I looked down at the uneaten crab puff on my plate and considered popping the whole thing in my mouth so I would be assured
of not speaking for at least thirty seconds.
Instead, I chose an unusual path for me, especially with strangers. I spoke the truth. Rather involuntarily, I might add.
“I’m from the US and… ” If my lack of British party manners hadn’t already given away that I was an outsider, I was sure my
American accent had. I tried another approach. “What I meant to say is that I’m not familiar with your father or his work.
So I don’t know if I’m a fan or not.”
“Is that right?”
I nodded. “I am familiar with his name only because of a few details Andrew and Katharine told me as we drove over here tonight.”
“And they didn’t tell you what my father did?”
I shook my head and offered a tiny smile, hoping my faux pas would be dismissed.
He nodded slowly. It was the kind of nodding motion one makes when thinking. He kept looking at my eyes the same way his wife,
Ellie, had tried to make eye contact with me at the theater.
I realized how jet-lagged I was and how much I could use a little freshening up before I tried to carry on a serious conversation
with anyone else in the room. At least if I wanted them to take me seriously. I reminded myself that my objective was to see
if any of these guests had a lead for me on the photograph.
For a fleeting second I considered asking Edward if I might show him the photo and ask for his input. But I felt off balance
and didn’t want to risk offending the “Founder of the Feast” by letting him know the only reason I was there was to carry
out some amateurish detective work.
Instead of continuing the conversation in any direction, normal or abnormal, I looked away from his questioning gaze. “Would
it be all right if I used your restroom?”
“Our restroom? Do you intend to have a rest?”
“Excuse me?”
“Were you asking if you might lie down to take a nap?”
“No. I would like to use the restroom… the bathroom… I want to wash up.”
“Oh, of course. The WC. It’s in the hallway, to the right of the stairs.”
“The what?”
“WC. Short for water closet, of course.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I turned to go, wondering how it could be that though we were both speaking English, neither of us understood
the other.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what my father did?” he asked.
I stopped and looked at him over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure of the proper way to respond, so I simply took the cue as if it
were a riddle. “What did your father do?”
With a hint of grin he
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