1
CHARLIE
The Whitfield Estate glowed in the late afternoon light. Golden rays filtered through ancient oaks whose shadows moved independently of the breeze - subtle enough to dismiss at first glance, persistent enough to make you look twice. The mansion's honey-colored stone seemed to hold the sunlight, while the gardens stretched out in impossible perfection. Roses that never wilted lined the pathways, fountains caught light at unnatural angles, and hedges so precisely trimmed they might have shaped themselves overnight.
The runway stretched across the back lawn like a gleaming white ribbon, elegant and pristine. Sixteen vendors working in perfect harmony, twenty-two models preparing for what Priscilla insisted would be a "revolutionary moment in fashion," and me, making sure it all came together without anyone getting hurt or sued.
It was actually kind of magical, watching it all?—
"CHARLIE!"
The first shout was loud enough to startle a flock of birds from the oak trees.
"WHERE'S CHARLIE?”
And there was the follow-up that could probably be heard from the next county. Priscilla's voice carried across the estate with the urgency of someone announcing the apocalypse, which in her world probably meant the canapés weren't artistic enough. I'd learned to interpret Priscilla-speak: High pitched yelling at all times.
I emerged from behind the catering tent where I'd been playing referee between a bartender and a server who was convinced the champagne flutes had "bad energy." In most places, that would be nonsense. In Mystic Ridge, I'd learned to take it seriously and keep spell-neutralizing dish soap stocked.
"Right here, Priscilla," I yelled.
She gestured dramatically at the perfectly adequate light setup spanning the runway. "The lighting is completely wrong! It needs to evoke ancient forest magic, not a grocery store parking lot!"
I checked my clipboard and scanned today's list of impossible demands. "What exactly does ancient forest magic look like?"
"More... mystical!"
Right. I made a note to have the crew adjust the filters. Again. Fourth time today, but who was counting?
My headset buzzed. "Charlie, we got a problem."
There's always a problem. "Hit me."
"Three models locked themselves in the bathroom. Something about the mirrors showing their 'true nature' instead of their faces. And the tall redhead is asking if we have anything warm. The really fresh kind, if you know what I mean. Also, someone wants to know if you can fix a torn seam on one of the dresses."
I rubbed my temples. "I'm the event coordinator, not the seamstress. Tell them to find Priscilla's assistant for alterations. Handle the mirror situation with some creative lighting. And tell Red she signed a dietary waiver - whatever she needs is between her and catering."
"Copy."
I clicked off and surveyed the beautiful disaster spread across the estate grounds.
My phone rang. Raina's name flashed across the screen.
"Tell me you're calling to save me," I answered.
"Better. I'm calling to offer you work."
"I'm already working. Currently preventing a fashion show from becoming a circus act. And I'm booked solid for a year."
"This is different. High-profile client. Once in a lifetime opportunity. The kind of gig that could set you up for a long time."
I stopped walking. Raina didn't oversell opportunities."What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just... maybe bring extra insurance forms. And keep your receipts for equipment replacement."
"Where are you right now?" she asked.
"Whitfield Estate. Priscilla's fashion show. Why?"
