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The garden party was divided into the usual cliques, and I stopped atThe Chatterboxesfirst. If I ever wanted to overhear the gossip, I lingered by their gaggle.
“Did you all hear what the pitch is for the new name?” Ms. Jennings asked the group.
Mrs. Wits pulled a mimosa from my tray. “Sand Trap Socialites, wasn’t it?”
“That was the old one.” Ms. Jennings waved her hand. “Thenewone.”
“Gilded and Green Paradise?”
“It’s Fairway Haven, right?” Mrs. Gilmartin asked, setting her empty flute on my tray and grabbing another. I immediately picked up the empty, placing it as close to me as I could. “I absolutelyadoredthat one!”
I moved on then, unsatisfied with the topic of conversation. Besides, if I lingered too long, they’d notice.
The next group I paused at was the older men,The Wallets. They were the husbands that funded the endeavors of their wives, really uninterested in anything that wasn’t related to the putting green. Mr. Holland owned a luxury real estate business, Mr. Massey owned the hotel chain, and Dr. Conan was a renowned surgeon. While they were passionate about the country club, it was their wives who truly ran it. On the Alderton-Du Ponte board of directors, the real power was in their hands, not their husbands’.
“I think the whole thing is ridiculous,” Mr. Holland grumbled as I approached. “How much more money can we offer? Money hungry for a charity, aren’t they?”
Mr. Massey released a withering sigh. “They’re so fixated on that old music hall—surely they can find a different one to repurpose for their silly events. Leave it to us and move on.”
“Leave it to us todemolish, you mean.” Dr. Conan shook his head. “As ancient and unused as it is. It’s much better suited as a sauna—I thought it was genius when my wife pitched the idea.”
The men all grumbled in agreement. None of them took a champagne flute, so I continued on. The final group,The Monarchs, stood furthest from everyone else. This group only consisted of three women—Mrs. Conan, Mrs. Holland, and Mrs. Massey, except the latter wasn’t present. Their mimosas were full, but I kept an eye on them. They would be the group to approach for the best information.
Even though Mr. Roberts called me in early, I still was here until my scheduled out-time. I just had three more hours left. Two hours for this party, one for the event tear-down, and then I’d be on my merry way back to my apartment. I might even have time for a nap today.
I wondered if Mr. Roberts had told any of the members that the Rhythms of Hope charity figureheads were on the estate’s grounds—most likely not, since they still languished in seemingly meaningless conversation, despite theemergency meeting.
I stood, posted, near The Chatterboxes, and the wind carried a bit of their conversation my way. “… Fiona’s been talking about some guy she’s latched onto,” Mrs. Flannagan was saying, an edge of impatience in her voice. “It’s because her father and I told her—it’s time to get married or to work in the winery. If she doesn’t want to start taking the family business seriously, we won’t let her freeload off us forever.”
A take I hadn’t seen any of these ladies having, honestly. Most of the mothers—like Caroline’s mother—were content with their children staying with them until the end of time. Maybe it was because Fiona was just too annoying.
“Grant Holland is single, isn’t he? Could it be him?”
My stomach twisted. Even still, I didn’t glance over. I didn’t even twitch.
“I think he has a new girl now,” Ms. Jennings murmured, almost too low for me to pick up. “Maria was talking about it. That she’s more his speed.”
It wasn’t news to me, Grant’s new girlfriend. I’d had six months to adjust to the news. Six months since things had blown up between us.I don’t know why you’re having these thoughts, Grant had crooned when he had come back the final time in July, smoothing down my blonde hair. The touch had been delicate, lulling, as if he had been trying to coax my mind clear.It’s always you, Lovisa. Just you.
It, unsurprisingly, had not been just me.
“Did you see there’s a house going up for auction soon with a nice acreage?” someone said—Mrs. Wits? I couldn’t tell without looking. “On Everview. That house that’s been sitting for years. It’s a pile, but the view of the bay is lovely.”
All at once, my thoughts emptied at her words. They were discordant—a cellist applying too much pressure to their bow as they slid it across the strings. A pianist slamming their palm down on the keys. It caused everything inside me to jump—my stomach, my pulse, my decorum.
“At least that means it’ll be cheaper,” Ms. Jennings grumbled. “Nearly a million dollars for a house you’d have to tear down.”
“When?” The question came out before I could catch it, barely above a whisper. I took a jerking step forward, toward them. “When is it going to auction?”
The Chatterboxes all turned toward me, expressions twisting as if I’d grown three heads.What are you doing?their eyes seemed to demand.Have you been listening this whole time?
Despite the drastic faux pas, I couldn’t move my feet.
Mrs. Wits glanced around her group, obviously waiting for who would answer. “I—I think the beginning of April?”
The beginning of April. Four weeks.
The house on Everview would be up for auction in four weeks.