Fifteen couples, none of whom knew each other well at all, gathered around an ornate cherrywood table to celebrate a holiday that had absolutely no meaning for most of the people in the room. Instead of turkey, they served squab. Wild rice replaced sweet potatoes with marshmallow topping. And, to Alex’s utter disbelief, there wasn’t a pie in sight. She had wanted to bake an all-American apple pie and bring it with them as a Thanksgiving offering, but Griffin had been horrified at the thought. “Leave the cooking to the help, darling,” he’d said, dismissing her the way one would a backward child. “A magnum of Dom and flowers is more the thing.” She never argued points of etiquette with Griffin. He was older and more sophisticated and knew how to navigate the shark-infested waters of London society. An apple pie wasn’t much in the scheme of things, but it had represented a basic difference between herself and Griffin, in the way they looked at the world.
