She geared down, clicking the paddle shifters, and started through the towering iron gates to the Fitzgerald estate. The all white spread looked more like the White House than a home in small town Connecticut, but the rivers of polished stone along either side of the driveway served as a reminder of its rural place in the world.
Abigail realized she'd been holding her breath, remembering how shabby she'd felt in comparison to the grand home with tall columns that flanked the entrance, marking those who walked beneath them as small. At least that was all in the past, she thought, exhaling. Now she wasn't small, she wasn't broken. She was happy with the life she'd built and proud of its imperfections. There was no reason to feel small or lost or alone as she had when she'd been eighteen.
Pulling the car around the fountain in the center of the driveway, she sided up next to a crop of tidily hedged trees with rows and rows of bursting pink stargazer lilies at the skirt. Unconsciously, she swiped at her sweater, straightening imaginary wrinkles, feeling immediately frumpy next to such groomed beauty.
Just a handful of hours more then she was done with the day. Not too much longer, she reminded herself as she pushed open the car door then closed it with a solid thud, glancing around.
Five chimneys regally pierced the sky, standing tall as if on their tiptoes to dominate just that much more. The bubbling fountain was flowing, various staff members scampered around, and the sweet songs of orange-bellied American Robins chirped through the chill like a committee of judges discussing the arrival of each new person.
Probably spies, Abigail mused as she walked around Declan's car to the passenger side. Spies set in place by the formidable Francine Fitzgerald.
Her stomach lurched and her chest tightened at the idea that she'd have to interact with the estate's matriarch at some point throughout the evening. As she forced out another strong exhale she whispered, "I hate this, I hate this, I hate this."
She was sinking, feeling like a small kitten outside of a Turkish prison, and despised that her generally intact self-esteem had dwindled upon arrival. She was a strong, competent woman; it was just a collection of memories that fogged, tricking her into feelings that had tripped her once, but didn't need to trip her twice. She could numb herself to the past and just get through the job, couldn't she?
Yes, yes she could.
Bracing at the sound of the front door opening, she hoped with her whole being not to see Francine walk through it. Abigail turned slowly, peering, as two polished skinny girls holding clipboards stepped out.
Grateful for the small moment of mercy, she pulled trays and tubs from the passenger seat, stacking as many as she could in her arms then pushed the passenger door closed with her hip.
Because she knew the grounds of the mansion—not that she'd ever been welcome there in high school but a few times she'd visited—Abigail made her way around the side of the house, firmly unwilling to step foot inside. She followed the paved walkway lined with more fragrant lilies toward the back where tiered layers of grass gleamed a glorious green amid thick tufts of woods.
Ribbons of twinkle lights dangled and looped around old oak trees, large white tents connected together, and rich autumn colors—deep amber, gilded bronze, burnt red, and velvet brown—tucked around terraced lawns, providing colorful ornament.
It was beautiful, just as it had been the last time she'd been there. But that was a day she preferred to forget, so she pushed it from her mind as she pulled back the opening to the tent.
Musicians were busy setting up at the edge of the dance floor, the PA system squealed as it was tested, and various workers in black and white uniforms folded napkins into elaborate swans, placing them on top of fine bone china.
Pub food served on fine china. What a combo, she thought, easing in, joining Ben, Beckett, Danielle, and Kelly who were busy with setup.
Not wanting to disturb her team's flow, Abigail finished carrying in the load from Declan's car, sent Beckett to retrieve Declan and the remaining food, and began fussing with the order of the buffet.
"Here's what I'm thinking: first, Pretzel Bites with Beer Cheese Dip, then Pub Salad, the lettuce and toppings, beside that," she said, pointing to each location as Danielle hustled to rearrange. "Then Banger's N' Mash—bangers before mash, of course—then onion gravy and parsley and chive garnish. After that are the Guinness Glazed Ribs, then Baked Beans. What else is there? Oh, crap, I forgot about the Marinated Cheese and Olives. Those should go after Pretzel Bites. If they're before, people will skip them and go straight for the pretzels."
Abigail's dark brows pulled together. "We should've had another vegetable but there just wasn't time. Salad, potatoes, beans, plus two meats, and two starters. Okay, we're okay."
"Want me to try to whip something up? Raid the kitchen in the mansion?" Kelly asked, hopeful.
"No, thanks, just having a last minute panic is all."
A voice boomed through the speakers, tweaking the sound, the reverberation, the volume as everyone went about their business, hustling to setup, arrange, rearrange.
Then music bellowed, loudly, and after two full Sinatra songs, Abigail glanced around at the food they'd stashed on folding tables in a small side tent behind the food area.
"Danielle?" Abigail yelled above the Michael Bublé tune the DJ now played, tearing Danielle's attention away as she'd been lost, swaying with the idea of seeing Michael Bublé live and in person. "That's a track, not the real deal yet. You and Ben take this Beer Cheese Dip up to the kitchen of the main house and heat it up, okay? And also heat up extra glaze for the ribs, we'll add a little extra upon request. Guests arrive in..." she checked the thickly banded silver watch she'd remembered to slip on her wrist. "Less than an hour."
She frowned again as she counted the containers of sausages, then recounted including the containers in the back she'd set to warm over chafing dish fuel. "We're missing two containers of sausage."
"Maybe they're in your car?" Kelly asked, wincing.
"Dammit, I thought I got all the sausage. Call Beckett's phone?"
"Tried earlier. Went straight to voicemail. I was going to taunt him by blaring Sinatra singing 'You're Driving Me Crazy' in his ear."
"Dammit." The music lifted in volume then competed against a portly man who shouted at the DJ. "I'm going around to the front to see if they're back yet," she yelled.
Before she made it out of the tent, she heard the raspy claw of Declan's mother's voice reach through the booming music and squeeze ahold of her between the beats. Glancing quickly at the commotion, she saw that the woman was otherwise occupied with the DJ so she slid through the flaps of the tent and made her exit.
Chastising herself for being such a wimp, avoiding the Fitzgerald matriarch, she continued, arriving safely in the driveway where valets zipped around in red jackets and bow ties, preparing for the rush.
She heard a familiar engine rumble and saw her brother's truck pull out from behind a delivery van and start down the driveway.
Sprinting and cursing that she'd worn cute boots instead of comfy tennis shoes, she raced after her brother. She willed the glowing red taillights to pull over and when they did, she raced to the driver's side window. "Oh, you're not my brother."
"I'm not," the guy in a red tapestry uniform jacket said as he climbed out of the old beast of a truck.
"Did you see where he went, the driver? Which way maybe? And was he carrying a tray of sausages?"
"No idea. Sorry."
She let out a breath and walked back up the paved stretch of the meticulous driveway. Not even one fallen leaf was featured on the regal entryway, showing that with Francine Fitzgerald at the helm, anything was possible. The woman managed to control nature even.
Throbbing music echoed through frosty ribbons of evening air. It just smelled differently at the Fitzgerald estate, as if the entire place was perfumed by a bottle of something fancy with undetectable rare notes from flowers that bloomed on one night, once a year. The scent, the grounds, the arrival of Declan on her doorstep that morning, it all took her back to a place she had no interest in returning to in her life.
And by comparison to the regality that wafted around her, she smelled of pub food, her hair was frizzy from the damp skies, and she was doing her best not to pant as she rounded the house and returned to the tent.
"Sausages here yet?"
"Nope," Kelly told her. "Beckett's not answering his phone still, either. I tried. You should call that sexy man of yours."
"Not my sexy man," she corrected. "Okay, the setup looks great. Make sure the serving spoons are out? Don't put them in the food yet, though. And Ben, where's Ben?
"Still up in the kitchen, I think, with Danielle."
"Right, okay. Can you straighten the tablecloths to make sure they're not buckled under the chafing dishes and then hunt down someone in one of those uniforms and get a big stack of extra cloth napkins. We can place them over spills during the buffet line. People are bound to drip." She finally exhaled and took in another breath. "I'm going to hunt down Declan to see where Beckett and the sausages are. Wish me luck."
"Luck," Kelly told her as she started in on the list of to-dos Abigail had rattled off.
"Thanks, I'll need it," Abigail said calmly, working up to the idea that she'd be setting foot inside the grand mansion, inside the place she'd been told never to return to in exchange for money she'd so desperately needed when she was eighteen.