Page 79 of Laced With Secrets

Adelaide’s mouth tightened, her tongue clicking against her teeth. “I don’t know why he gets like this,” she said as she pivoted sharply and headed toward the grand staircase.

Sebastian turned to Penny. “Come, we need to do your final fitting. The photographer wants to start test shots in twenty minutes.”

Penny shot me a panicked look, and I squeezed his hand. “You’ve got this.”

Sebastian led Penny away toward the fitting area. I watched as he positioned my friend on a raised platform, a seamstress making minute adjustments to the suit he wore. Penny caught my eye and I gave him an encouraging smile, which he returned weakly.

“Want to explore?” Dominic murmured in my ear. “It’ll probably be a while before they’re finished with him.”

I nodded.

We wandered through the ballroom, past racks of carefully preserved clothing and jewelry displays. Historical Society volunteers were setting up informational plaques, and I spotted several pieces I recognized from my grandfather’s cobbler shop—shoes he’d made or repaired over the decades, now part of the district’s history.

The crowd was thick with preparation activity—Sebastian and Victor’s fashion people mixing with Historical Society volunteers in a furor of elegant decorations and clothing dating from the 1800s to Y2K. Mrs. Henderson was directing the placement of floral arrangements, her efficient commands cutting through the chatter.

Dominic and I had stopped to examine a display of 1950s poodle skirts and Greaser jackets when movement caught my eye through one of the doorways leading to a quieter hallway.A figure—silver-haired, shoulders hunched—moving slowly, almost shuffling.

Richard Fairfax Sr.

He was alone, walking away from the ballroom toward what I assumed was the west wing Sebastian had mentioned. Even from this distance, I could see the way he moved like a man much older than his seventy-four years.

“Dominic,” I said quietly, touching his arm.

He followed my gaze and tensed immediately. “Leo?—”

“I just want to talk to him,” I said. “Maybe…” I trailed off, not quite sure what I hoped to accomplish.

Dominic studied my face for a long moment, then nodded. “Alright,” he said.

We followed at a discreet distance as Richard made his way down the hallway, past family portraits and antique furniture. He stopped at a door—third on the left—and disappeared inside.

I approached quietly and knocked gently on the heavy wood.

“I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.” Richard’s voice came through, hoarse and rough.

“Mr. Fairfax,” I said quietly. “It’s Leo Sterling-Hart. And Dominic Steele. I saw you walking by and…”

A long pause. Then: “Come in.”

The study was exactly what I’d expected—dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, leather furniture that had probably been here for decades. A massive desk dominated the space, its surface covered with framed photographs and stacks ofdocuments. But what caught my attention was the wall of windows behind the desk, offering a perfect view of the greenhouse.

That beautiful glass structure was clearly visible through the winter-bare trees, the life inside creating spots of green against the bleak landscape.

Richard stood at those windows, his back to us, staring out at the greenhouse with rigid stillness.

Up close, he looked even worse than Penny had described. His expensive suit hung on a frame that seemed to have lost weight, and his silver hair was uncombed, standing in wild peaks. When he finally turned to face us, his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen in a face gone haggard and pale.

“I’m not exactly presenting as a proper host right now.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been crying or hadn’t slept in days. Probably both.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” I said gently, stepping into the study with Dominic close behind me. “I saw you in the hallway and thought… well, I had some questions. About Thomas. If you’re willing to talk.”

Richard’s shoulders slumped as his gaze drifted back to the greenhouse, his eyes glazing over with the mist of old memories.

“Thomas,” he said quietly. “We met in April 1972, at the inaugural Historical Preservation meeting. He was so excited about preserving the district’s architectural heritage while modernizing the infrastructure.”

He gestured toward the window, toward the greenhouse visible through the glass. “We had our last conversation out there. He walked out of that building and I never saw him again.”

His body swayed, shoulders slouching forward as if the invisible weight of those memories pressed down on him, threatening to buckle his knees beneath him.