He’d already loudly announced himself undefeated, and his amusement was carrying across the courtyard like he’d just discovered his life’s true calling.
In the kitchen, Cleo was ticking off names on the catering list, her hair escaping its clip in three different directions, her earpiece dangling around her neck, and somehow, despite the mayhem, everything still ran perfectly.
I stood back for a moment, watching. For the first time all day, I let myself breathe. Lunch had gone well. Everything had gone to plan.
For now, at least.
The guests were happy, the food was flawless, and miracle of miracles, not a single crystal glass had broken. That alone felt like a small victory worth celebrating.
Leaning against the terrace railing, I let my gaze sweep across the vineyard. The rows of vines shimmered silver-green under the breeze, their rhythm steady and hypnotic.
Somewhere beyond the hills, a kookaburra’s laugh rang out, bright and familiar.
“Lunch was perfect,” Cleo said, appearing beside me, a stolen chocolate truffle in hand.
“Don’t jinx it,” I warned, smiling. “It’s never perfect. Not for long.”
Cleo took a bite, eyes twinkling. “You’re just saying that because you haven’t had to deal with the mother of the bride yet.”
Before I could answer, the sharp, unmistakable click of heels echoed across the terrace. That sound could belong to only one person.
Margaret swept into view from the main hall, her expression calm but purposeful while clutching a small velvet box with both hands. Caroline followed half a step behind, her expression was polite, but her eyes were resigned.
Cleo jumped. “How does she do that?” she whispered. “I swear she’s got the place bugged.”
I straightened automatically, smoothing my shirt and putting on my most professional smile.
“Miss Sinclair,” Margaret said crisply. “Might we have a private word? There’s something rather important that requires your attention.”
“Of course,” I said, already bracing myself.
Caroline caught my eye for a fleeting moment, a look equal parts sympathy and amusement. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be optional.
Margaret gestured towards the French doors leading back into the main house. Her heels clicked in that brisk, unyielding rhythm that made people instinctively move out of her way. I followed, tablet in hand, while Cleo trailed behind, her expression curious.
Inside, the afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, catching the lazy swirl of dust motes in the air. Margaret led us into one of the lounge rooms, serene, elegant, and elegantly lit, with the kind of pale upholstery that dared you to spill something on it.
“Please, come in,” she said, though she remained standing by the window like a queen addressing her court.
Caroline sank gracefully into an armchair, while Cleo and I perched on the edge of the couch. The door clicked shut behind us, muting the chatter and clinking glasses from outside. The only sound left was the constant tick of a clock on the mantel.
Cleo leaned closer, whispering out of the corner of her mouth. “Feels like we’re about to get detention.”
I shot her a warning look. “Professionalism, please.”
She nodded solemnly. “Right. Silent mode activated.”
Margaret turned to face us, her posture flawless. “This won’t take long,” she said. “I have something of great importance to entrust to you.”
Caroline let out a sigh, affectionate but resigned. “It’s the brooch, isn’t it, Mother?”
“The family heirloom,” Margaret confirmed. “It must be handled with the utmost care.”
I straightened immediately. “Of course, Mrs Harrington. You can trust me with it.”
Cleo raised her hand. “And me. I’m very good with valuable things. I once carried a three-tier wedding cake across a gravel driveway without tripping.”
Caroline chuckled under her breath. I didn’t. Margaret certainly didn’t.
