But I don’t see him the next time or the next. Which makes sense; the man has a multi-million dollar business to run. Still, all the questions about the oh-so-hot Mr. Darcy have left me mildly annoyed with his existence. Plus, my midwestern frugality cannot comprehend the staggering amount of money his family spends on this event. Every time I pay a vendor, I wince a little, mentally compiling a list of better uses for the money spent on the ice sculptures, light crews, and caterers. However, by the day of the party, I must admit all this money has created something magical.
When the guests arrive, they look up in wonder as they take in the glory of the towering trees twinkling with millions of fairy lights. In the center of the circular driveway glitters an enormous Christmas tree, two-stories tall. Fluffy flakes of snow pirouette down from a cloudless night sky. That’s right, the Darcy family brought in snow machines so their guests can experience a white Christmas the first week of December in Sacramento.
Happy cheers and laughter float through the air as families build snowmen, children sled down white hills, and couples glide across the ice rink set up in the pasture. I survey it all with a mix of pride and anxiety. Walking the grounds as the party begins, I make sure everything runs according to plan. A layer of fresh snow covers the ground, reflecting many sparkling lights. All the vendors wait at their stations with food ready to serve. The air smells of roasted almonds.
The parking shuttles drop off guests like clockwork, and the machine-made snow isn’t melting. It’s a cool 38 degrees, making me grateful for my puffy jacket and red beanie. I cross the grounds, returning to the front entrance to wait for the next group of guests. A tall man in a long black overcoat stands on the front steps. I shudder with recognition.
His feet are shoulder-width apart, and his hands clasped behind his back. I’m certain it’s Mr. Darcy, even though all I can see is his back and some of his profile. Perhaps it’s his height or his broad shoulders or the way he surveys the party as if he owns the world. I feel some trepidation approaching him, which irks me. I give myself an internal shake and a pep talk. He might be absurdly rich and excessively handsome, but those things don’t make Liam Darcy a superior human. He turns and fixes his eyes on me, and his face changes with something like recognition. With deliberate strides, he descends the front steps to meet me.
“Mr. Darcy, I assume.” I hold out my mittened hand to shake. He engulfs mine with his ungloved hand. The heat of his body radiates through my red mitten. He must run hot. Perhaps it’s all the layers. He wears his long black trench coat unbuttoned over a three-piece suit. The way his coat swells in the wind and flaps about his ankles makes me think of a superhero’s cape. It’s not a bad look. Though it is a bit much for a party with sledding and cookie decorating.
“Hi! I am Lettie, with Bennet’s Parties,” I say. Snowflakes catch in his brown hair. I have the oddest urge to reach up and brush them out.
“Ah! the famous Lettie.” His slate eyes rove my face. “Have we met?” His words are more demanding than friendly.
“No, definitely not. I just have one of those faces,” I say with a nervous laugh.
He nods but appears unconvinced.
“The party looks great.” He speaks stiffly. I can’t decide if he’s uncomfortable with the party or me.
“It turned out alright,” I say modestly.
“Yes, Reynolds has praised you up and down.” His words are kind, but his tone distant. “I meant what I said in my note about the Pumpkin Hunt. Well done.” I get the feeling he’s speaking from a script while his mind is off somewhere else entirely. The lights on the archway bathe his chiseled, solemn face.
Oh, so he did write that note; I was beginning to wonder if maybe Reynolds wrote it for him. But I’m still confused.
“Forgive me, Mr. Darcy, but you didn’t go to that party?”
“Please, call me Liam.” He attempts a smile. “I couldn’t make it. All the more reason to thank you. According to all reports, it was a big success.” I mean, he’s not wrong. I’ve never been to a Pumpkin Hunt before, but in my humble opinion, it was an exceptional party.
Pemberley Parties are events for the company as well as the community. There are three parties a year: Blossom Days, the Pumpkin Hunt, and the Pemberley Holiday Party. In the past, Liam’s mother, Anne Darcy, organized these events with Bennet Parties, assisting the week of the party. But, after her husband’s sudden death this year, the family canceled Blossom Days and handed over all the party planning to our company. As mentioned, I was assigned the Pumpkin Hunt, which is sort of like an Easter Egg hunt where guests look for pumpkins instead of eggs. Each guest can take home up to three pumpkins. There’s also a huge bonfire where revelers can roast hot dogs and s’mores. Chili, cornbread, beer, and cider round out the festivities.
“My mom appreciated that you made sure that there was vegan chili and gluten-free cornbread.” I stand a little taller. I gave the caterer my own vegan chili recipe even after Priscilla balked at my insistence that some guests would be vegan.
“No one’s really vegan,” she quipped. “They just tell people that to feel superior.” It’s a daily challenge not to talk back to my boss. I don’t even bother to suppress my eye rolls.
“And this.” He points to the slope behind us, where people are sledding on inner tubes and wooden toboggans. It looks like something out of a Christmas card. “It is... ” He begins then trails off lost in thought. He clears his throat. “My father would approve.”
“Darcy!” hollers a cheerful male voice. It’s Charlie Bingham (I happen to recognize him from the extensive Google search of Darcy). The two rowed together at UCLA. Charlie is tall, muscular, and beyond blond. He looks very Nordic, standing by the front door of the Darcy family’s gorgeous gray stone house. Charlie skips down the steps. He’s not even bothering with a coat. He sports jeans, a creamy cable knit sweater, and a green plaid scarf artfully draped around his neck. He jogs over to the two of us. “What luck! You’re both standing under the mistletoe.”
We both look up at the kissing ball with horror. How could I make such a dreadful mistake? I helped the florist hang the abominable thing this morning. Not that the kissing ball is abominable; it’s quite lovely—a sphere of holly and ivy with red berries, white spray roses, and sprigs of mistletoe. My eyes catch Darcy’s gray ones. A strong emotion flickers across his face; if I had to name it, I’d say panic. He jumps away from me.
Charlie laughs. “Don’t be such a drama queen, Darcy. It would be no trial to kiss... umm... ” he flails for my name.
I put my hand out, striving to be professional despite my riotous heart. “I’m Lettie Benson with the event planner.”
Charlie takes my red mitten, then clasps it with both his hands. He shakes it in a friendly manner. “Charlie Bingham, pleasure to meet you, Lettie. Don’t give old Darcy another thought. Spontaneity and fun are not his strong suits. He’s a grump but has a heart of gold, or at least a bank full of the stuff.” He laughs at his own joke.
“You’ve said enough, Bingham,” Liam says through tight lips.
“Nice to meet both of you,” I squeak. “I’ll just get going.”
I scurry into the house, and I swear, I feel Darcy’s disapproving glare heavy on my back until I shut the door behind me.
He walked here and walked there fancying himself so very great. —Pride & Prejudice
2
