They arrive at the lawn; the party and all its bells and whistles are laid out before them like a portal into another world. How a team of people managed to plop this perfectly curated scene into the middle of a ranch in the dead of summer, Grace has no clue. But it’s beautiful, and, in Renata Caldwell fashion, not a single detail is unimportant.
People Grace has never seen before are mingling among the tables, holding bottles of beer and wineglasses, dressed in expertly starched shirts and felt hats molded with care to perfectlyfit their heads. They all look like they share the same tax bracket with the Caldwells, and even in her new state of feminine glamour, Grace can’t help but feel a bit underdressed.
The guys all make a beeline toward the bar, Grace following a few paces behind with June. “What do you think?” the blonde asks, clearly not nearly as impressed with all of this as Grace.
“It’s really something,” Grace replies, still taking it all in. Renata and Clint are near the dance floor talking to a man with a guitar hanging from his neck. He looks familiar, but Grace can’t quite put a name to his face.
June follows her line of sight and smirks, nodding knowingly. “That’s Bryce Carrigan, in case you were wondering.”
Grace looks at her, eyes widening. “Bryce Carrigan, like—”
“The guy who just won a Grammy and did a duet with Kacey Musgraves? Yeah.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yep,” June says, nodding. “Honestly, I’m kind of surprised. He’s small potatoes, comparatively.”
Grace isn’t sure she evenwantsto know what that means, but her eyebrows tilt up in question anyway.
June smiles, her eyes glittering with playfulness. “Last year was George Strait.”
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Cold beers in hand, Graceand June decide to make a lap around the party. A sea of strange faces stretches out before them, and Grace can’t ignore the flare of nerves that rises up in her belly at the sight. She knows her uncle wouldn’t come all the wayhere—the drive would take hours, and what would he even do once he arrived? There are men in all-black attire with walkie-talkies and guns at their hips strategically placed around the perimeter of the party. Close enough to blend in, far away enough to be invisible, depending on where a person is standing. Against that kind of muscle, her uncle would fold like a cheap polyester suit.
Whether June notices her unease or not, Grace can’t be sure, but she chalks it up to a woman’s intuition when June leans in and starts whispering in Grace’s ear about the guests. It’s a welcome distraction from her paranoia. Grace indulges her by following her gaze as she looks out at the dance floor. A man and a woman sway near the center, neither really moving their feet. He’s silver haired and large in stature, dwarfing his petite companion. His arms are wrapped possessively around her shoulders, and she seems to smile only when he looks at her. Otherwise, she seems like she’d rather be anywhere else. The closer Grace looks, the clearer it becomes that the woman is younger than him.Muchyounger.
“Julian MacArthur,” June says, nodding in his direction. She looks slightly disgusted, and soon, Grace understands why. “Oil baron kind of money—richer than the Caldwells. Richer than God, honestly. He’s got his hands in all kinds of pots, but mostly horses and sponsoring bull riders. And that’s his new wife, Makayla.” June looks at Grace, kinks a judgmental brow, and says, “She’s twenty-three.”
“Ew,” Grace replies. “Newwife?”
June nods. “Left his first wife after forty years or something like that. Four kids, all grown. And—” June folds her arms overher chest, staring once more at the man, who, to Grace, somehow looks colder, more menacing than he did seconds ago. “The real kicker is he made her sign a prenup before they got married. She got to keep the house and one of the Porsches. One. He took the rest.”
One Porsche—a cool hundred grand, tossed over this man’s shoulder like scraps for a dog. Grace lets out a humorless laugh at the thought.
“Ten o’clock,” June says, and Grace’s attention blessedly drifts away from Julian, who is starting to sweat through his suit. At the far left corner of the dance floor, she sees two women standing close together, both staring up at a man and listening intently to whatever he’s saying. “Carolyn and Marilyn Montgomery,” June explains. “Houston royalty. Rodeo princesses.”
Grace nods, transfixed by how stunning both women are, in that rare, ageless kind of way, and it takes her a half second to realize they look…exactlyalike. They’re twins—dressed the same, down to their shoes. They mirror each other’s mannerisms; they both throw their heads back when they laugh, and they both follow it by shaking their heads in feigned exasperation. It looks as easy and natural as breathing when they both reach for the man’s bicep—one to the left, the other to the right.
“I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting them, but, by all accounts, they’re lovely.Never met a stranger, could charm the mortar off a brick wallkind of women.”
An older man with a silver mustache appears a moment later, and he inserts himself between the twins with a knowing smile. They must be familiar with him; they both guffaw at the same time when they realize who’s wedged themselves into their circle. Even from a great distance, Grace can see a sparkle in hiseyes and the self-assured way he carries himself, as if confidence has never once been a point of struggle.
“Ithinkthat’s the Caldwells’ lawyer,” June says when she notices him. “I can’t remember his name…Flanagan something. Never met him, either, but Forty says he’s a real demon in a courtroom. Never lost a case for the family, which, if you think about it, is not all that impressive. If someone was paying me a half-mil retainer, I’d be winning, too.” The man, Flanagan, holds his hand out for one of the twins to join him for a dance, and when one agrees, they spin around in fluid, practiced motions, looping arms and sliding bootheels.
While Grace and June have been observing the crowd, the band has been setting up, and soon enough the live music takes over the speakers, replacing the generic country playlist with something more alive, more electric. Bryce Carrigan is a newer name in music but one who has quickly cemented himself as a favorite, and everyone at the party seems to flood the dance floor the second he steps up to the microphone and says, “Howdy, y’all.”
Like Whac-A-Moles, Mikey and Raymond pop into Grace and June’s field of vision, both holding cans of Bud Light, smiling with flushed cheeks. They insist on a dance, holding out their hands, and for two songs, the four of them laugh until their stomachs hurt, two-stepping and spinning around on the faux-wood dance floor.
Toward the end of the second song, Grace sees Renata staring out at the dance floor, and when they eventually make eye contact, Renata does a double take with bulging eyes when she realizes who she’s looking at.
Oh my God, she mouths. She slaps Clint’s and Cooper’s shoulderswithout taking her eyes off Grace, wordlessly pulling them both from the middle of a conversation. They turn, both rubbing their arms and looking affronted, but then they follow Renata’s gaze.
When Cooper sees Grace, his eyes and his smile light up his entire face. Clint, on the other hand, raises his arms toward the sky and gives her two thumbs up. Then he places his thumb and index finger between his teeth and whistles,loud.Grace gives him a weak thumbs-up in return, blushing and trying to hide her face in Mikey’s shoulder.
Bryce’s lilting voice carries on through the speakers set up on either side of the stage. Grace continues to mingle, to drink, and to dance with all the hands. She tries—she really does—tonotscan the party for a tall, probably frowning, dark-haired figure.
But he just—he tends to take up a lot of air in any space he occupies. Even when he’s grumpy, or stubbornly reserved, he’s like a magnet for all the oxygen around him. The second he enters a room, her eyes tend to gravitate toward the vacuum of his presence, even when she doesn’t want them to. Which is how she realizes—with a little tinge of disappointment flaring up in her belly—Crew isn’t here.
