Charles stood in front of the mirror, wrestling with a bow tie.
“We used to run around together when I was younger,” he said. “Your contest was the first time we’ve seen each other in ages.”
“Well, I’ve gotten to know her a little bit, obviously.”
“I noticed.” Charles managed to get the bow tie under control, which was good, because I didn’t know the first thing about tying them. He sifted through a leather box of cuff links to choose an appropriate pair.
“Yeah, well . . .” I sat on the edge of the king-size bed, made up with too many pillows and blankets. Obviously, his mother’s decorating and the housekeeper’s doing. “I, uh, sort of pried some stuff out of her.”
His eyes caught mine in the mirror. “Sounds ominous.”
“I don’t suppose you remember her talking about a business venture years ago? Sort of a farm-focused vacation thing.”
Charles fit one cuff link through his sleeve, then the other, brow furrowed while he searched his memory. “That does sound familiar. Yeah. I remember being pretty into the concept. She wanted to draw in several local business owners to partner on it with her. Create a little industry around food and wine.”
“Right.”
Then a look of horror captured his face. His eyes widened. “You know what I just remembered?”
“I have a pretty good feeling I do.”
Charles turned to look at me. “I’m a bastard. I swear I hadn’t thought about it in probably a decade. No wonder she wouldn’t talk to me at the Thanksgiving Throwdown.” He sighed, dumping himself on the bed next to me to hang his head. “I promised to talk to my father about making an initial investment. Getting her the startup funds she needed.”
“Then you ghosted her.”
“She must hate my guts. I was going through so much shit with my family and I just forgot all about it.” He blew out a breath, raking his hands through his hair. “Wow, that sounds awful.”
I took his hand, squeezing gently. “It sucks, but it’s understandable. And know she’d forgive you if you talked to her about it. Let her know what you were going through.”
“I don’t even know where to start to approach her.” Charles placed his hand over mine, bringing them to rest on his lap and running his thumb absently over my knuckles. “Mia was the kind of girl who scared the hell out of all the boys growing up.”
“I think maybe if you sent her a letter. Wish her happy holidays and maybe invite her to dinner. You’d probably be surprised at how far the gesture would go with her.”
He smiled, lifting my hand to his lips to plant a soft kiss. “That’s a great idea. I’d really love to catch up with her. Make this right.”
“Good. Now that I’ve done my good deed for the day, I’ve got to run before Ali sends a search party after me.” I pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and darted out of the room.
I was only thinking about menus and to-do lists when I jogged out of the guest suite and across the courtyard. So, it barely registered that there might be anything to worry about when I spotted Amelia leaving her own suite next door.
Back at the main house, it was all systems go. Ali and I had a meeting with the additional staff Megan had hired for the event. We coached them through the timeline and how the hors d’oeuvres would proceed through cocktail hour, before a plated dinner in the ballroom.
Next, I gathered the kitchen team to begin prep. We only had six hours to prepare, cook, and plate 600 canapés, plus a six-course sit-down dinner for nearly 200 people. Every time I said those numbers out loud, I felt my stress level ratchet up again.
Mrs. Hawthorne had insisted on an autumnal-inspired menu. Their Thanksgiving party was legendary, and every year guests expected she’d outdo herself to be even more elaborate than the last. I’d wracked my brain for days and endured several heavy edits by Mrs. Hawthorne until we arrived at a satisfactory menu.
First up were harissa-spiced tiger prawns in filo dough cups. Then cranberry and ricotta-stuffed endives with walnuts. We had lamb meatballs with mint chimichurri, brie crostini with bacon-plum jam, pumpkin pinwheels in a saffron puff pastry, and finally, crumb-topped caramelized butternut squash with sage and brown butter.
For the dinner service, we had tomato and peach carpaccio, soy-glazed tuna, potato gnocchi, veal meatballs with cranberry chutney, squab served on a bed of mushroom risotto and topped with haricot vert sautéed in brown butter with almonds, and finally, individual apple tarts with miso caramel, chili flakes, and homemade vanilla ice cream.
Most of our day was spent dicing up vegetables, cleaning and deveining prawns, stuffing squabs, and baking like mad. There was so much food, we had to rent three rotisseries and a whole truck of ovens running off a generator outside the staff garage. I was constantly sprinting back and forth between those ovens and the main kitchen, checking temperatures and watching my dough rise. Everything had to be perfect. There was zero room for error.
As I was jogging from the ovens toward the kitchen, skidding past the drawing room, I heard raised voices and realized I’d accidentally stumbled on a heated conversation between Charles and his parents. I would have minded my manners and been on my way, but I tripped over a power cord and nearly dove headfirst into a table with what I’m sure was a priceless heirloom vase perched on top of it. While I steadied the decorative vessel among the dozens of staff marching back and forth with boxes and folding chairs, I couldn’t help but overhear part of their argument.
“You two haven’t been fooling anyone,” Mrs. Hawthorne sighed. “Sneaking around the house at all hours.”
“Who’s sneaking?” Charles shot back, his voice rising and clearly agitated. “I’m not a teenager.”
“Exactly. There’s no excuse for such careless displays, running around town with that girl.”
