“Right,” she said quickly. “Just give me a moment and I’ll check what’s going on.”
He left, and she turned to me, uncertainty flitting across her face. “This is fine. He’s probably at the bank right now.”
“Does he have anyone with him?” I wondered.
“No.”
“Do you have his business address?”
“No." She shook her head.
“Do you have a contract?” I questioned.
She hesitated. “He said it would only slow things down.”
A man wearing a rental company jacket came through the doorway holding a clipboard. “Sorry, folks. I’ve been waiting all night for our payment for the glassware. Are you Lydia Bennet?”
“I thought Gavin already paid you,” Lydia murmured.
“He hasn’t. Here’s our invoice." He ripped a piece of paper off the clipboard, handing it to Lydia.
“It’s just a little miscommunication,” Lydia said too fast. “I’m taking care of that right now. Please wait near the door.”
The man frowned but did as she asked. When he walked away, she exhaled. “This is fine. I can figure this out. I’ll give Gavin a call and sort it all out.”
She tapped her phone screen then held it up to her ear. Lydia looked up at me and frowned. “You look like you are preparing for disaster.”
“I am preparing for reality,” I gently replied.
We waited as his phone went to voicemail. She dialed him again with the same results.
“Lydia,” I said quietly, “where is the money from the online ticket sales?”
“Through his website. He said he would transfer it after the event." Lydia began to chew her bottom lip.
“To who?”
“To me. To the inn.”
“Did you confirm the account he used?” I asked.
She stared at me. “You really don’t trust anyone, do you?”
“He told you one thing, and people are telling you another. It’s not adding up,” I said.
Her chin lifted, proud and fragile at once. “He is coming back.”
“Good,” I said, even though I didn’t believe it for a moment. Normally I would unflinchingly tell the truth, but I felt the need to protect the Bennet family. “He can explain then.”
“Maybe he’s driving. Maybe he’s pulling up to the inn right now,” Lydia’s voice was small and there was a thread of desperation in it. She headed out the door, walking along the porch, uncaring that she had left the door open. I followed her. The parking lot stretched quiet and white under the lights. Wickham’s car was gone. Only clean tire tracks curved through the snow.
Lydia went still beside me. “He went to the bank.”
“Then he will be back soon,” I said, because there wasn't anything else to say. “Come on.”
We stepped back inside. The music had picked up tempo. Guests were dancing again. The Bennet family was laughing near the dessert table, unaware. I hoped it stayed that way for a little while longer.
“Give me your vendor list. We will pay them ourselves,” I decided.
