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wer to Serena’s question
than a vague; general statement made to fill a blank space while
she was tending to her roll。 “I’m fine。”
Esther brought out the duck and the acorn squash soufflé and the
wilted chard and the lingonberry sauce; and the table was filled with
the sound of clanking plates and silver and murmurs of “delicious。”
Blair heaped her plate high with food and attacked it as if she
hadn’t eaten in weeks。 She didn’t care if she made herself sick; as
long as she didn’t have to talk to Serena。
“Whoa;” Serena said; watching Blair stuff her face。 “You must be
hungry。”
Blair nodded and shoveled a forkful of chard into her mouth。 She
washed it down with a gulp of wine。 “I’m starving;” she said。
“So; Serena;” Cyrus Rose called down from the head of the table。
“Tell me about France。 Your mother says you were in the South of
France this summer。 Is it true the French girls don’t wear tops on the
beach?”
“Yes; it’s true;” Serena said。 She raised one eyebrow playfully。 “But
it’s not just the French girls。 I never wore a top down there; either。
How else could I get a decent tan?”
Blair gagged on an enormous bite of soufflé and spat it into her
wine。 It floated on the surface of the crimson liquid like a soggy
dumpling until Esther whisked it away and brought her a clean
glass。
No one noticed。 Serena had the table’s attention; and she kept her
audience captive with stories of her travels in Europe right through
dessert。 When Blair had finished her second plate of duck; she ate a
huge bowl full of chocolate…laced tapioca pudding; tuning out
Serena’s voice as she spooned it into he