If she’d hoped he’d insist their relationship wasn’t meaningless, she’d set herself up for disappointment. He leaned across the table. “It doesn’t have anything to do with what’s temporary. It has to do with the kind of person I am.”
“What about the kind of person I am? Somebody who’s completely comfortable with sneaking around.”
“You heard me.”
She regarded him with dismay. This was the unwelcome consequence of having a lover with honor. Or at least what he saw as honor. What she saw was a looming choice between disaster and heartbreak.
Between trying not to think about falling in love with Ted and thinking too much about a possible reappearance by her mysterious home invader, Meg didn’t sleep well. She used her wakeful nights to make jewelry. The pieces were becoming more complicated, as her small group of customers showed a distinct preference for jewelry that used genuine relics instead of copies. She researched Internet dealers who specialized in the kind of ancient artifacts she wanted to use and plowed an alarming chunk of her nest egg into an order with a Boston-area anthropology professor who had a reputation for honesty and who provided a detailed provenance for everything she sold.
As Meg unpacked some Middle Eastern coins, Roman cabochons, and three small, precious mosaic face beads from around the second century, she found herself wondering if making jewelry was her business or a distraction from figuring out what she should really be doing with her life?
A week after Ted left town, Torie called and ordered Meg to show up for work an hour early the next morning. When Meg asked why, Torie acted as if Meg had just failed an IQ test. “Because Dex will be home then to watch the girls. Jeez.”
As soon as Meg got to the club the next morning, Torie dragged her to the practice range. “You can’t live in Wynette without picking up a golf club. It’s a city ordinance.” She handed over her five-iron. “Take a swing.”
“I won’t be here much longer, so there’s no point.” Meg ignored the pang that tweaked at her heart. “Besides, I’m not rich enough to be a golfer.”
“Just swing the damn thing.”
Meg did and missed the ball. She tried again and missed again, but after a few more swings, she somehow sent the ball in a perfect arc to the middle of the practice range. She let out a whoop.
“A lucky shot,” Torie said, “but that’s exactly how golf sucks you in.” She took the club back, gave Meg a few pointers, then told her to keep working.
For the next half hour, Meg followed Torie’s instructions, and since she’d inherited her parents’ natural athleticism, she began connecting with the ball.
“You could be good if you practiced,” Torie said. “Employees play free on Mondays. Take advantage of your day off. I have a spare set of clubs in the bag room you can borrow.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t really want to.”
“Oh, you want to, all right.”
That was true. Watching so many other people play had piqued her interest. “Why are you doing this?” she asked as she carried Torie’s bag back to the clubhouse.
“Because you’re the only woman other than me who’s ever told Ted the truth about his dancing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do. I also might have noticed that Ted went strangely quiet when I brought up your name in our phone conversation this week. I don’t know if you two have a future—providing he doesn’t have to marry Sunny—but I’m not taking any chances.”
Whatever that meant. Still, Meg found herself adding Torie O’Connor to the list of all she’d miss when she finally left Wynette. She slipped the bag of clubs off her shoulder. “Regardless of Sunny, how could Ted and I have a future? He’s the Lamb of God, and I’m the town bad girl.”
“I know,” Torie said brightly.
That evening, as Meg hosed off the day’s dust from the drink cart, the catering manager approached and told her one of the members wanted to hire her to serve at a ladies’ luncheon at her home the next day. The few townspeople who could afford it routinely hired staff to help at private parties, but no one had ever requested her, and she needed all the money she could get to make up for the materials she’d just bought. “Sure,” she said.
“Pick up a white server’s shirt in the catering office before you leave. Wear a black skirt with it.”
The closest thing Meg had was her black-and-white Miu Miu mini from the resale shop. It would have to do.
The catering manager handed over a piece of paper with the directions. “Chef Duncan is cooking, and you’ll be working with Haley Kittle. She’ll show you the ropes. Be there at ten. And this is a big deal, so do a good job.”
After she got back from the swimming hole that evening, Meg finally looked at the information the catering manager had given her. There was something familiar about the directions. Her gaze flew to the bottom of the page where the name of the person she’d be working for was typed out.
Francesca Beaudine
She crumpled the paper in her fist. What kind of game was Francesca playing? Did she really think Meg would take the job? Except Meg had already done exactly that.
She yanked on her happy printing company T-shirt and stomped around the kitchen for a while, cursing Francesca, cursing herself for not reading the information earlier when she could still have refused. But would she have? Probably not. Her stupid pride wouldn’t let her.
The temptation to pick up her phone and call Ted was nearly unbearable. She made herself a sandwich instead and carried it out to the cemetery only to discover she’d lost her appetite. It was no coincidence this was happening while he was gone. Francesca had executed a stealth attack designed to put Meg in her place. It probably made little difference to her whether Meg accepted or not. She wanted to make a point. Meg was an outsider, a down-on-her-luck drifter forced to work for a meager hourly wage. An outsider who’d only be allowed in Francesca’s house as one of the help.
Meg pitched the sandwich into the weeds. Screw that.
She reached the Beaudine compound a little before ten the next morning. She’d chosen her sparkly pink platforms to wear with the white catering blouse and Miu Miu mini. They wouldn’t be the most comfortable shoes to work in, but the best defense against Francesca was a strong offense, and they’d send the message that she had no intention of being invisible. Meg would hold her head high, smile until her cheeks ached, and do her job well enough to put a crimp in Francesca’s satisfaction.
Haley pulled up in her red Ford Focus. She barely spoke as they walked into the house together, and she looked so pale Meg grew concerned. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’ve got . . . really bad cramps.”
“Can you get someone to work for you?”
“I tried, but nobody’s around.”
The Beaudine kitchen was both luxurious and homey with sunny saffron walls, a terra-cotta floor, and handcrafted cobalt blue tile work. An enormous wrought-iron chandelier bearing colorful glass cups hung in the center of the room, and open shelves displayed copper pots and hand-thrown pottery.
Chef Duncan was unpacking the food he’d prepped for the event. A short man in his early forties, he had a big nose and a graying shrub of wiry auburn hair protruding from beneath his toque. He frowned as Haley disappeared into the bathroom, then barked at Meg to get to work.
While she set up the glassware and began organizing the serving dishes, he detailed the menu: bite-size puffed pastry hors d’oeuvres filled with melted Brie and orange marmalade, minted fresh pea soup served in demitasse cups that still needed to be washed, a fennel-laced salad, warm pretzel rolls, and the main course, asparagus frittata and smoked salmon, which they’d plate in the kitchen. The pièce de résistance was dessert, individually potted chocolate soufflés the chef had been working all summer to perfect and which must, must, must be served as soon as they came out of the oven and placed gently, gently, gently in front of each guest.
Meg nodded at the instructions, then carried the
chunky green water goblets into the dining room. Palm and lemon trees grew in Old World urns placed in the corners, and water trickled from a stone fountain set in a tiled wall. The room held two temporary tables in addition to a long wooden permanent table with a distressed surface. Instead of formal linens, Francesca had chosen hand-woven place mats. Each table had a copper tray centerpiece holding assorted clay herb pots of oregano, marjoram, sage, and thyme, along with earthenware pitchers brimming with golden yellow blooms. Through the expansive dining room windows, she could see part of the courtyard and a shady pergola where a book lay abandoned on a wooden bench. It was hard not to like a woman who’d created such a beautiful setting to entertain her friends, but Meg intended to give it her best effort.
Haley still hadn’t emerged from the bathroom when Meg returned to the kitchen. She’d just begun washing the pottery demitasse cups when the tap-tap-tap of heels on the tile floor announced the approach of their hostess. “Thank you for helping me out today, Chef Duncan,” Francesca said. “I hope you’re finding everything you need.”
Meg rinsed a cup, turned from the sink, and gave Francesca her brightest smile. “Hello, Mrs. Beaudine.”
Unlike her son, Francesca had a lousy poker face, and the play of emotions that crossed her face was fairly easy to decode. First came surprise. (She hadn’t expected Meg to accept the job.) Then came puzzlement. (Exactly why had Meg shown up?) Discomfort appeared next. (What would her guests think?) Then doubt. (Perhaps she should have thought this through more carefully.) Followed by distress. (This had been a terrible idea.) All of it ending in . . . resolution.
“Meg, may I speak with you in the dining room?”
“Of course.”
She followed the tapping heels out of the kitchen. Francesca was so petite Meg could almost have tucked her under her chin, although she couldn’t imagine doing anything like that. Francesca was stylishly dressed as always—an emerald top and a cool white cotton skirt she’d cinched with a peacock blue belt. She stopped by the stone fountain and twisted her wedding ring. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. My own, of course. I won’t need you after all. Naturally, I’ll pay you for your time. I’m sure money is tight or you wouldn’t have felt the need to . . . show up today.”
“Not as tight as it used to be,” Meg said cheerfully. “My jewelry business is doing a lot better than I dreamed.”
“Yes, I’d heard.” Francesca was clearly flustered and just as clearly determined to settle this. “I suppose I didn’t think you’d accept the job.”
“Sometimes I even surprise myself.”
“This is my fault, of course. I tend to be impulsive. It’s caused me more trouble than you can imagine.”
Meg knew all about being impulsive.
Francesca straightened to her full, unimpressive height and spoke with stiff dignity. “Let me get my checkbook.”
Incredibly tempting, but Meg couldn’t do it. “You have twenty guests coming, and Haley’s not feeling well. I can’t leave Chef in the lurch.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage somehow.” She fingered a diamond bracelet. “It’s too awkward. I don’t want to make my guests uncomfortable. Or you, of course.”
“If your guests are who I think they’re going to be, they’ll love this. As for me . . . I’ve been in Wynette for two and a half months, so it takes a lot to make me uncomfortable.”
“Really, Meg . . . It’s one thing for you to work at the club, but this is something else entirely. I know that—”
“Excuse me. I need to finish washing the cups.” Meg’s sparkly pink platforms made their own satisfying tap-tap-tap as she headed back to the kitchen.
Haley had emerged from the bathroom, but as she stood at the counter, she didn’t look any better, and Chef was getting harried. Meg snatched the bottle of peach nectar from her hands and, following Chef’s instructions, poured a little down the inside of each flute. She added champagne, slipped in a sliver of fresh fruit, and turned the tray over to Haley, hoping for the best. As Haley carried it away, Meg took the platter of toasty pastry puffs Chef had pulled from the oven, picked up a stack of cocktail napkins, and followed.
Haley had staked out a place by the front door so she didn’t have to walk around. The guests arrived promptly. They wore brightly colored linens and cottons, their outfits dressier than what their California counterparts would have donned for such an affair, but in Texas, underdressing was a mortal sin even in the younger set.
Meg recognized some of the women golfers from the club. Torie was talking to the only person in the room dressed entirely in black, a woman Meg had never seen. Torie’s champagne flute stalled halfway to her lips as she saw Meg approaching with the serving tray. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Meg dipped a fake curtsy. “My name is Meg, and I’m your server today.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Because . . .” Torie waved her hand. “I’m not sure why not. All I know is, it doesn’t seem right.”
“Mrs. Beaudine needed some help, and I had a free day.”
Torie frowned, then turned to the thin woman at her side, who had a fierce black bob and glasses with red plastic frames. Ignoring the breach of protocol, she introduced them. “Lisa, this is Meg. Lisa is Francesca’s agent. And Meg is—”
“I highly recommend the puff pastries.” Meg couldn’t be certain Torie wasn’t about to identify her as the daughter of the great Fleur Savagar Koranda, the superstar of talent agents, but she knew Torie well enough by now not to take that chance. “Make sure you save room for dessert. I won’t spoil the surprise by telling you what it is, but you’re not going to be disappointed.”
“Meg?” Emma appeared, her small brow knit, a pair of earrings Meg had fashioned from colorful nineteenth-century carnelian beads bobbing at her ears. “Oh, dear . . .”
“Lady Emma.” Meg held out the tray.
“Just Emma. Oh, never mind. I don’t know why I even bother.”
“I don’t either,” Torie said. “Lisa, I’m sure Francesca has told you all about our local member of the British royal family, but I don’t think the two of you have met. This is my sister-in-law, Lady Emma Wells-Finch Traveler.”
Emma sighed and extended her hand. Meg slipped away and, under Francesca’s watchful, worried eyes, headed over to serve the local mafia.
Birdie, Kayla, Zoey, and Shelby Traveler clustered together by the windows. As Meg drew nearer, she heard Birdie say, “Haley was with that Kyle Bascom again last night. I swear to God, if she gets pregnant . . .”
Meg remembered Haley’s pale face and prayed that hadn’t already happened. Kayla saw Meg and poked Zoey so hard she splashed champagne on her hand. All the women inspected Meg’s skirt. Shelby shot Kayla an inquisitive look. Meg held out the stack of napkins to Birdie.
Zoey fingered a necklace that looked as though it had been made of shellacked Froot Loops. “I’m surprised you still have to work parties, Meg. Kayla said your jewelry’s selling great.”
Kayla fluffed her hair. “Not that great. I marked the monkey necklace down twice, and I still couldn’t move it.”
“I told you I’d redo it.” Meg had to agree the monkey necklace wasn’t her best piece, but nearly everything else she’d given Kayla had sold quickly.
Birdie tugged on a spike of her woodpecker red hair and regarded Meg loftily. “If I was going to hire catering help, I’d specify who I wanted. Francesca’s too casual about this kind of thing.”
Zoey glanced around. “I hope Sunny’s not back yet. Imagine if Francesca invited her with Meg here. None of us need that kind of stress. At least I don’t, not with school starting in a few weeks and me down to one kindergarten teacher.”
Shelby Traveler turned to Kayla. “I love monkeys,” she said. “I’ll buy that necklace.”
Torie slipped into the circle. “Since when do you love monkeys? Right before Petey turned ten, I heard you tell him they were filthy little beasts.”
“On
ly because he’d just about talked Kenny into buying him one for his birthday.”
Torie nodded. “Kenny’d do it, too. He loves Petey as much as he loves his own kids.”
Kayla shook her hair. “That French girlfriend of Ted’s, the model, I always thought she sort of looked like a monkey. Something about her teeth.”
The Crazy Women of Wynette were off and running. Meg slipped away.
When she got to the kitchen, Haley had disappeared, and she found Chef fuming as he stepped over broken champagne flutes. “She’s worthless today! I sent her home. Leave the fucking glass alone and start plating the salads.”
Meg did her best to follow his rapid-fire orders. She raced around the kitchen, avoiding the broken glass and cursing her pink platforms, but when she returned to the living room with a fresh tray of drinks, she deliberately slowed her steps, as though she had all the time in the world. Maybe she didn’t have any experience as a server, but nobody needed to see that.
Back in the kitchen, she unearthed three small pitchers for salad dressing as Chef dashed to the oven to check on the frittatas. “I want these served hot.”
The next hour flew by as Meg tried to do the work of two people while Chef worried over the chocolate dessert soufflés. Torie and Emma both seemed determined to engage her in conversation every time she appeared in the dining room, as if Meg were another guest. Meg appreciated their good intentions but wished they’d let her concentrate on her job. Kayla forgot her animosity long enough to tell Meg she wanted another pre-Columbian stone necklace and earrings for a friend who owned a shop in Austin. Even Francesca’s agent wanted to talk, not about Meg’s parents—apparently no one had tipped her off—but about the frittata and whether she detected a touch of curry.
“You have an amazing palate,” Meg said. “Chef used the barest hint. I can’t believe you caught it.”
Francesca must have realized Meg had no idea whether the frittata contained curry or not because she quickly diverted Lisa’s attention.
As Meg served, she picked up snippets of conversation. The guests wanted to know when Ted was getting back and what he intended to do about various local problems ranging from someone’s noisy rooster to the Skipjacks’ return trip to Wynette. As Meg poured Birdie a fresh glass of iced tea, Torie chided Zoey about her Froot Loops necklace. “Just once, couldn’t you wear normal jewelry?”
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