She took a deep breath. “Anything special I need to pack?”
He walked over, sat beside her on the couch, and turned the tablet so she could see the screen. What he’d been looking at.
Four gowns. Different cuts, all exquisite.
“Something for the black-tie evening,” he said.
Her brows lifted. “Just one?”
He shook his head. “You’ll need more than just this. But this is a start.”
“So do I get a fairy godmother, or?—”
“Even better. You’ve got me.”
It was the kind of bright, early autumn morning that made everything feel both wholesome and crisp at once.
Bea tucked her hands into the sleeves of her sweater as she and Georgina stepped through the towering security gates near Mayfield Hall, heading toward St. Ives town. Two guards nodded as they passed, earpieces in, eyes already moving past them.
Georgina wore a white blazer draped like a cape, enormous sunglasses, and buttery leather boots that had likely come off a Milan runway.
“So…apparently I’m going to the Harvest Summit.”
“Gage finally told you?” Georgie glanced at her.
“Last night.”
“Did he explain it?”
“Kind of.” Bea made a vague gesture. “Very…fiscal-quarter presentation. Charts. No feelings.”
Georgina tsked. “Okay, here’s the truth: imagine every legacy family that actually matters, all vacationing at the same vineyard, benchmarking each other.”
Bea frowned. “And we’re all just…there?”
“You’renot just there.” Georgina glanced over her sunglasses. “You’re with Gage.” Said like she was halfway to the throne and the firing squad.
“So I’m going to be judged.”
“Like a sculpture in a glass case,” she snickered.
Bea’s palms turned clammy. Her stomach dipped, a cold swoop like missing a stair.
They crossed the cobblestone street. Leaves rustled in sharp bursts of copper and gold. Everything was disrespectfully beautiful for a morning this stressful.
“Is it survivable?”
“With the right friends and the right wardrobe? Absolutely.” Georgie tapped Bea’s arm. “You might even like it.”
Bea spotted the café ahead. Lemon trees in copper pots, umbrellas stretched taut against the light. The perfect spot for a panic attack.
“There’s always one girl who becomesThe Story,” Georgina continued. “Three years ago it was Arabella DuPont. Hooked up with her boyfriend and then tried to sabrage a champagne bottle. Took out a hedge that had been growing since the eighteen hundreds.”
Bea snorted a laugh at that, then stopped at Georgina’s expression. “I mean, it’s a little funny.”
“It was hilarious,” Georgina agreed. “But the point is the DuPonts haven’t been invited back since. And they still call that part of the hedge the DuPont Gap.”
“Wow.”
