“I know. I just can’t get used to it. Every morning, I wake up and get a small shock,” I confess.
I give her a few minutes more to gape at our surroundings before I ask her to unwrap the painting. She straightens, turning to me with a grin that's all too familiar, but I hold up a hand,whispering urgently. “We’ve got to be quick, Em. Dora's in charge of everything around here—she could pop in any second. I have a feeling she knows something is up, but doesn’t know what. For all I know she could be outside with her ear to the door.”
She nods, but her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Of course, Mrs. Bessant. Just delivering the commissioned piece, as requested." Her voice is formal, but there's a pause, a shared glance that hides out laughter.
Emma unwraps the package to reveal a whimsical watercolor of the estate's gardens—vibrant blooms growing around a towering mansion rendered in her signature soft strokes. It’s perfect.
“Yes, very good. I like it,” I say loudly. Then I lower my voice again. "The walk-in closet is soundproof, I think—let’s go in there, I’ll show you around a bit. I lead her through the door, close it and flip on the lights to reveal rows of designer gowns hanging like jewels, shelves of pristine, never-worn shoes.
Emma touches a shelf full of Louboutin heels, gleaming, red-soled and gorgeous. “Wow.”
She runs a hand along a rack of cashmere sweaters, her touch lingering on the soft fibers. She glances back at me. "And I thought the Kardashians had impressive closets."
We share a low snicker before hurling ourselves into the other’s arms. Then we chat in low tones for a few more minutes. I give her a rundown of how the whole party will happen and what I plan to wear. We know it will be suspicious if she stays too long, so we hug again and I take Emma back downstairs.
Once she is gone and the front door is shut, I exhale, pressing my palms to my flushed cheeks. The morning drags into the afternoon. I help Freya with the balloons in hushed giggles, her small hands fumbling with the helium tank we snuck in, the room filling with floating orbs that bob against the chandelierlike captured stars. Frances plays her part, her voice carrying faintly down the hall. Once Dora is sequestered in her suite of rooms, I really go to work.
The caterers and chocolate fountain people are smuggled in through the back door. The DJ and his disco equipment are brought in without allowing him to ring the bell. Same with the other guests.
Then it's time. Freya darts into her grandmother’s room, her voice panicky and urgent: "Grandma! Dora! Can you help me find Mr. Rabbit? Please? I think I left him in the music room, but I can’t find him, and I’m worried he might have fallen behind the piano. He’s scared of the dark, poor thing.”
I hear their footsteps approaching, Frances's slower, Dora's brisk, and we all huddle in the darkened room. Even Franklin. The butler is stiff but smiling faintly. The maids whispering excitedly, Dora’s son, nephew, and sister crouch next to me. The door opens, light spills in, and we leap out—"Surprise!"
Dora freezes, her hand flying to her startled mouth.
It takes a while for her to recover from her shock and understand what’s happening, but as soon as she does, tears well up in her eyes. Dora wipes her eyes. She hugs Freya tightly as she takes in the scene: the over-the-top balloons, the chocolate fountain burbling with molten dark chocolate, its tiers cascading smooth and glossy, surrounded by skewers of fresh strawberries, marshmallows, and pretzels from a local artisanal baker. Trays of catered dim sum steam gently under silver domes—shrimp dumplings translucent and plump, pork bites topped with crab roe, char siu bao fluffy and sweet-savory—all arranged on elegant platters with soy sauce dips and chili oil.
The DJ starts playing the Happy Birthday song. Everyone sings along. Dora looks on with her hands clasped tightly in amazement. Everyone claps, then the DJ begins to play his list ofupbeat songs from the eighties and nineties, from the time when Dora was young. It fills the room with party energy.
The party explodes into life—laughter echoing off the walls, people dipping treats into the chocolate, the rich, velvety sweetness coating tongues and fingers, dim sum passed around on trays with chopsticks clinking. And the alcohol flows: bottles of wine in ice buckets, vodka for mixing with fresh juices, the corks popping like celebrations themselves.
Then Frances warms the room with toasts and stories. It's a great success, the kind that makes my chest ache with happiness. I did this, brought this light to this strangely disconnected family and house.
Dora approaches me as the music shifts to something softer, her eyes still glistening. She takes my hands in hers, squeezing gently, her gaze searching my face—lingering on my eyes, my smile—as if she can't quite believe it's me standing there.
"Mrs. Carolyn," she says, her voice thick with emotion, pausing as if weighing her words. "This... all of this. I don't know what to say. Thank you. Truly. I never expected... No one has ever…." She trails off, her brow furrowing in that mix of surprise and disbelief, like she's seeing me for the first time.
I smile. "You totally deserve it, Dora. You’ve been good to this family for a very long time. Happy birthday!"
Frances edges over, her regal bearing unsoftened by champagne. She hesitates, her blue eyes meeting mine with reluctance, a flicker of something almost like approval buried under layers of wariness.
“All of this was... thoughtful," she says finally, her voice clipped but sincere, pausing as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other. "Thank you, Carolyn."
The words hang there, surprised, but real. I smile at her. “It was no trouble, Frances.”
Then a worrying thought flashes into my head. What happens to these people when the real Carolyn comes back?
Chapter Twenty-Two
BLAKE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mqFLXayD6e8
-that don’t impress me much
The clock on my office wall ticks past seven. It is the only sound in the quiet expanse of the high-rise suite overlooking midtown Manhattan, where the city lights are just starting to flicker on against the deepening twilight. I lean back in my chair.
Normally, I'd be buried here until ten, midnight even, poring over spreadsheets and market analyses, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee lingering in the air. But tonight, my mind's elsewhere. A restless itch I can’t ignore crawls under my skin. It's that damn party at home—Dora's birthday celebration, the one orchestrated by Carolyn.
