Chapter 10: The Queen's Table
982 Words
Regionals for Academic Decathlon were two weeks away, and Ms. Hargrove had reshuffled the teams for practice scrimmages. She posted the groups on the library whiteboard Monday afternoon.
Alex scanned the list.
Group 3: Emma Valenti, Alexander Vincent, Kyle Ramirez, Sofia Chen.
He stared at the pairing for a second longer than necessary. Emma, already seated at the table, glanced up from her notebook. No smile. Just a slight nod, like it was inevitable.
Kyle, the freshman Alex had defended months ago, grinned wide. "Cool! We're gonna crush it."
Sofia rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Don't jinx us."
Practice ran long. Questions flew: science, history, art, math. Emma and Alex dominated, their answers overlapping sometimes, finishing each other's citations on obscure treaties or chemical reactions. Kyle and Sofia held their own, but the rhythm between Alex and Emma was sharp, almost effortless. Ms. Hargrove watched with approval.
Afterward, as books closed and chairs scraped, Emma approached him.
"We need more time on the fine arts section," she said. "My house tomorrow after school. Pool house has a study setup. Quiet."
Alex hesitated. The Valenti mansion wasn't exactly neutral ground.
"Just practice," she added, reading his face. "Bring Kyle and Sofia if you want."
He shook his head. "They've got other commitments. I'll come."
She nodded once. "Driver will pick you up at the gate."
Tuesday, the black town car waited exactly where she said. Tinted windows, discreet. The driver held the door without a word. Alex climbed in, backpack on his lap, feeling every inch the outsider.
The Valenti estate sat on the hills above the bay, gates opening smoothly onto a winding drive lined with manicured oaks. The house itself was modern glass and stone, sprawling like it had grown out of the landscape. The pool house, more like a guest cottage, had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water.
Emma met him at the door in jeans and a simple sweater, hair down for once. No queen act here.
"Study's this way."
They studied for two hours straight, flashcards, timed rounds, dissecting weak spots. She was relentless, pushing him on details he skimmed, but fair. When he corrected her on a lesser-known historical event from the Renaissance era, she actually smiled, small, genuine.
By six, her father called them in for dinner. Marco Valenti waited in the dining room, tall, dark-haired, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled. He greeted Alex with a firm handshake and a measuring look.
"Alexander."
Alex nodded. "Thank you for having me, sir."
Dinner was served family-style on a long wooden table: grilled branzino with lemon and herbs, wagyu beef medallions with truffle reduction, roasted heirloom vegetables, fresh sourdough still warm from the oven, and a bottle of 2010 Château Margaux breathing on the sideboard.
To Alex, it looked like an elevated version of Sunday dinner at home. Dad often grilled whole fish on the little charcoal setup, sourced fresh from the docks. The beef reminded him of the steaks his father marinated overnight. Vegetables from the farmers' market. Bread baked in the bar's oven.
Marco poured the Margaux, offering Alex a glass despite his age. "A sip won't hurt."
Alex accepted, swirling it gently, inhaling the aroma before tasting.
Marco watched, curious.
Alex took another sip. "Beautiful balance. Pairs well with the beef. One of my dad favorite.
Emma's eyes widened slightly. Marco leaned back, genuinely surprised.
"A bar owner's son familiar with first-growth Bordeaux?" he asked, tone light but probing. "And Château Margaux '10, no less. That's not something you pick up pouring drafts."
Alex shrugged, unfazed. "Dad knows his wines. Customers tip with bottles sometimes. He's got a nose for the good stuff. Makes a mean coq au vin too, better than most places I've read about."
Marco laughed softly. "Coq au vin? With what vintage?"
"Usually a decent Burgundy. But he did a version with Barolo once. Said it held up better to the braise."
Emma set her fork down, staring openly now. Marco's amusement deepened, but his eyes sharpened.
"And the branzino?" he pressed. "You've had it before?"
"All the time," Alex said, cutting another piece. "Dad grills it whole, stuffs it with herbs from the window boxes. This is good, but his has more char. Smokier. Grill it whole over a charcoal. Better than this, actually. Sorry to say”
Marco exchanged a glance with Emma, then turned back to Alex. "You make these sound... ordinary."
Alex smiled faintly. "They are, at home. Dad cooks like that most weekends. Says good food doesn't need a big price tag, just care."
The conversation shifted after that, but Marco's interest lingered. Questions about school, future plans, subtle probes into family life. Alex answered carefully, keeping it surface.
Marco excused himself for a call, leaving them alone briefly.
"Your dad," Emma said quietly. "He's... surprising."
Alex met her gaze. "You don't know the half."
She almost smiled again.
The driver took him home after. The Anchor's neon flickered red against the night sky as he climbed the stairs. Richard was closing up, wiping the counter.
"Good practice?" he asked.
"Yeah. Productive."
Richard nodded, no questions about the Valenti house. But Alex caught the flicker in his eyes: concern, or recognition.
Later that night, Richard's public phone rang. Unknown number, but he answered anyway.
"Richard Vincent?"
The voice was familiar, warm.
"This is Daniel Whitmore."
"Mr. President."
A soft chuckle. "Still family to you, son. I heard about the trouble with Alex. k********g attempt. You handled it quiet, I see."
Richard's grip tightened. "It was muggers. Resolved."
"Of course." A pause. "I'm coming to the valley next week. Official visit, but I'll make time. Want to see my grandchildren. Been too long."
Richard closed his eyes. "They'd like that."
"Good. Clear your schedule. And Richard... keep them safe. Whatever it takes."
The line went dead.
Richard set the phone down slowly.
Upstairs, Alex and Mia slept, unaware.
Quietly.
- Writer
