“I burned the corn fritters,” Daisy said, her face white with mortification. “They were perfect when they came off the griddle, then I put them in the oven to keep warm, but it was too hot and nowlookat the horror.”
Alice winced at the sight of the blackened crusts. There would be no saving them, but it wasn’t worth ruining the party over some burned hors d’oeuvres. “That’s all right. I can make more.”
“How?” Daisy asked, the edge of hysteria creeping closer. “I spent all last night slow-roasting the corn over hickory chips. It’s the only way to give the kernels the right smoky flavor, and now they’re completelyruined.”
Daisy was famous for her hickory-smoked corn fritters, but this wasn’t the end of the world and Alice could fix this.
“Get me a couple cans of corn, some smoked paprika, black cardamom, and some good, sharp cheese. We can fake it.”
Daisy set a hand over her heart. “Fake it? We can’t!”
“Yes, we can,” Alice said. “Nobody will know, and I’ll use a little extra seasoning in the batter so nobody will know the corn isn’t fresh. We can do this.”
In short order, Alice mixed up the batter and Daisy shredded plenty of cheese. Alice commandeered the Tuckers’ antique cast-iron skillet to begin frying. She never passed up an opportunity to use this skillet with its layers of seasoning built up through decades of splendid Southern cooking. It added a gentle infusion of depth and flavor impossible to duplicate any other way.
Once the crisis of the fritters was resolved, Alice set about doing what she’d come here early for: arranging mountains of hors d’oeuvres on antique platters with an artistic flair. Her problems melted away as she created little pyramids ofcucumber sandwiches, deviled eggs, and mini crab cakes. She clipped sprigs of fresh dill and parsley to embellish the trays.
“Oh, Alice, you should come over every day,” Daisy said. “We could have such fun! Nobody else understands the importance of a perfect cucumber sandwich.”
Alice leaned in close to whisper, “Darling, some things are too important to leave to amateurs.”
The Kentucky Derby was a pointless horse race with tacky betting, but she and Daisy would carve out a place for the ladies to enjoy the day indulging in a perfectly hosted celebration of feminine grace and charm.
Jack eyed himself in the mirror as he adjusted his cuffs beneath his pricey new blazer. He even added one of those silly pocket squares. Rule number one about going into battle was to put your enemy at ease, and he didn’t mind showing up to the snazzy Kentucky Derby party looking like he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’d given himself a close shave, slicked his hair back, and on the outside, Jack looked spiffier than he had in months.
Inside, he was furious.
He had liked living out at the Roost. After years of living in cold, impersonal hotel rooms, sharing the rustic digs with Doc had been surprisingly wonderful. That place had character in every square inch, with rough-hewn timber and raw simplicity. He even liked the birds that swarmed around the place. He’d started setting out bits of food to attract them and those silly birds were coming to know him, and he liked feeding them.
Alice Chadwick had put an end to that. The notice of eviction had been signed by the county housing authority, but he knewAlice was behind it. That day outside the courthouse when he offered to take her to the flower show? That was the day she filed the paperwork to get him kicked out of the Roost.
No wonder she’d been skittish. That woman radiated sweet gentility like fragrance wafting from a summer rose, but it was an illusion. She had her claws so deeply entrenched in Virginia’s social elite that she could sweep him aside with the flick of her hand. He had underestimated her, but that wouldn’t happen again.
What really drove him nuts—the extra bit of arsenic to make this sting even worse—was that he found her attractive. Knock-down, over-the-top, bombshell attractive. He’d always had a thing for ultra-feminine women, the kind whose handbags matched their shoes; who wore softly muted makeup and kept their long hair simply arranged. Alice had it all, along with a magnolia-soft, buttery Southern accent that triggered a tug deep in his gut. Everything about her was gentle, feminine, and sweet.
Except that sweet women didn’t get people evicted with forty-eight hours’ notice. He had to buy himself a hotel room, and since he didn’t want Doc back on the streets, that meant shelling out for two rooms, so no, he wasn’t in the mood to play nice today.
Jack ran his pickup through a carwash before heading out to Cherrywood, the country estate belonging to Kyle and Daisy Tucker. The Georgian-style plantation house sat on thirty-five acres and had been in the Tucker family since the Great Depression. While other families among Virginia’s aristocracy had floundered, the Depression seemed to have magically bypassed the Tuckers, who continued drawing revenue from their wineries and a bourbon distillery in the western part of the state. They made a killing in wine and spirits during Prohibition, which meant they’d had connections with bootleggers and law officers willing to look the other way.
His Ford F-150 looked a little out of place beside the BMWs, Jaguars, and Range Rovers parked on the grassy lawn beside the winding drive up to the house. Who cared? Half these people probably inherited their money, and the others earned it through professions in law or business. Nine times out of ten when Jack mingled with the country club set, he was the only man who worked outdoors with his hands, his brain, and a clawing desire to climb out of the back alley where he’d been raised. No matter how rich he became, his vehicle of choice would always be an American pickup truck. No imported car could match the rugged practicality of a pickup that could withstand mudslides, haul tools, tow heavy loads, and take a man wherever he needed to go. The pickup truck represented the soul of hardworking Americans whose grit and determination built this country.
The Cherrywood mansion sprawled before the circular driveway like a Southern belle who knew she was the most gorgeous thing in view. The estate was rumored to have an award-winning botanical garden that he’d been hankering to tour ever since he got here. He intended to kill two birds with one stone today. One, he’d rub shoulders with the people who’d soon be members of his golf club. Two, he’d get a good look at the gardens. And somewhere along the way he intended to read Alice Chadwick the riot act for stabbing him in the back.
Men with bow ties and women wearing hats that looked like works of art already mingled on the front porch.
Greg McGarity recognized him. “Jack! When are we going to play a round of golf out at that snazzy new course?”
“The first weekend in September,” he confidently asserted, and started chatting with others on the patio. He liked socializing with rich people and was good at it. Most of his experience rubbing shoulders with the one percent was atcountry clubs overlooking the 18th green, but a Kentucky Derby party was a nice change of pace.
Kyle Tucker soon joined him. “Thanks for coming,” he said as he shook Jack’s hand and gave him a clap on the shoulder like they were old buddies. He led Jack through the crush of people on the front porch and into the cool of the house.
Crossing through the front doors felt like entering Tara or some other fabled Southern plantation. A double staircase graced the foyer and led to a second-floor landing. Hand-painted wallpaper depicting rolling green hills provided relief from the white balustrades, white marble floor, and carved white paneling.
Kyle’s wife was busy greeting guests in the front hall. Daisy looked like her name, poised and feminine but a smidge on the preppy side. “Jack!” she called out, and he leaned in so she could deliver the perfect set of air kisses. He glanced over Daisy’s shoulder in search of his prey but realized instantly Alice wasn’t here. From the moment he laid eyes on Alice Chadwick, it was as if a sixth sense immediately sparked to life whenever she was in the vicinity.
“Come on inside and help yourself to something to eat,” Daisy said.
Jack was hungry enough to gnaw off his own arm, but the table displayed platters of miniature watercress and cucumber sandwiches. Women cooed over the tiny raspberry tarts cut to look like roses, but the corn fritters grabbed Jack’s attention. Amid the dainty offerings that wouldn’t feed a mosquito, he reached across the table to grab a wholesome, hearty corn fritter and groaned in pleasure at the first bite. It had the perfect crumbling crust, the smoky flavor, and rich, buttery corn. These would be great to serve at the golf course once it opened. Most men liked classic Southern cooking that didn’t pay too muchattention to carbs or looking like it came out of Martha Stewart’s kitchen. These wereperfect.
