Architect Haywood Dodd reminded me of Pierce Brosnan in his Mamma Mia! role, but without the accent or penchant for launching into song: Tall, dark hair threaded with silver, downturned blue eyes, classy, and wealthy. I knew from experience that those last two weren’t always mutually exclusive.
Quick with a smile, he was warm and welcoming, and just a bit shy. He was more comfortable with his drafting table and architectural books than a crowd of people. But one-on-one, he was open and charming, funny and humble. It was easy to see why Hyacinth Foster, whose standards were notoriously high, had fallen for him.
The band segued into a bluesy number, and I spotted a number of familiar faces, like my next-door neighbor Mr. Dunwoody; Hitching Post newcomer, Gabi Greenleigh; and one of my closest friends since we’d been knee-high, Caleb Montgomery. I mustered the smallest of smiles. “Thank you, Haywood, but it’s just fine. If anything, it’s not large enough.”
His bushy brows furrowed, then he said knowingly, “Patricia?”
I raised my glass in a mock toast. “Ding, ding.”
Haywood, as a regular customer, knew my colorful history with Dylan’s mama. But truly, the whole town was aware. I had a feeling that there was probably a betting pool going on somewhere on which one of us—Patricia or me—would snap first.
At this moment, I’d lay odds on me.
“If it makes you feel better, she doesn’t care for me, either,” Haywood said. “I can’t rightly say why she doesn’t, but it’s been that way a good many years now, a couple of decades at least. She’d always been friendly until one day she wasn’t.”
“You hadn’t slighted her in any way or form?” I asked him, curious as to why Patricia would turn on him. If it had been going on for decades, then it wasn’t because of his connection to the Harpies. He’d been with them only six months.
“I had just gotten married to my ex Twilabeth,” he said, smiling. “Maybe Patricia had been holding a secret torch for me.” He winked with exaggeration, then shrugged it off. “All kidding aside, it’s no big deal. I can live with her cattiness just fine.”
As far as I knew, Patricia had loved Harris Jackson something fierce, so I doubted she’d been pining for Haywood. Still, it was a strange coincidence.
He clapped my father on the back. “I for one will be glad to have another man in the Harpies.”
Apparently his announcement tonight was not to announce his resignation. Interesting.
Daddy said demurely, “Nothing’s for certain.”
I watched as Dylan, Ainsley, and Carter finally came into the ballroom. Dylan stopped in the entryway, slowly scanned the room, and when he finally spotted me, he smiled a smile that nearly melted me on the spot.
That.
That was why I put up with Patricia Davis Jackson.
Dylan gestured toward the bar, silently asking me if I wanted a refill. I nodded.
Haywood waved a hand of dismissal toward my father. “It’s all but a done deal, Augustus.”
Panic flashed in Daddy’s eyes. Suddenly, it occurred to me that he’d played along with Mama’s plan only because he never believed he would actually be permitted into the Harpies’ tight circle.
Poor, poor man.
“Wonderful,” Daddy muttered, then excused himself to join Dylan at the bar.
We were all going to need hangover potions in the morning.
“What time is your big announcement?” I asked Haywood.
“Ten.” He drew in a deep breath. “Thanks again for that calming potion. It worked wonders on my nerves.”
“Is the announcement about Hyacinth?” I asked as I glanced across the room at her. She was casting a nervous look over her shoulder at us.
Interesting that she was anxious, too. If she suspected a proposal, I’d think she’d be a bit more excited. Or maybe not, considering those rumors about her previous husbands . . .
“Good try, Carly,” Haywood said, grinning mischievously. “You’ll know soon enough.”
Ten o’clock seemed an eternity. It wasn’t even nine. And in between now and then was nine thirty, the time noted in Delia’s dream . . .
Trying not to think about that dream, I changed the subject. “The house is a beauty, Haywood.”
Beaming, he glanced around. “Thank you. It is. It truly is. A work of love.”
It showed.
Our heads came up in unison as raised voices caught our attention. Patricia Jackson Davis was reading a beautiful woman the riot act for party crashing.
Eyes round with fright, she cowered under Patricia’s onslaught.
I noted that the woman also had dark hair. Was she Patricia’s potential victim? I didn’t recognize her, so she definitely wasn’t local, but as she frantically looked around—for an escape route, I assumed—there was something familiar about her that I couldn’t quite place.
It appeared as though the whole crowd froze to watch the scene unfold. The music stopped and conversation quieted.
As Patricia continued to lay into the woman, I’d had enough. Party crasher or not, no one deserved that kind of venomous welcome to town. I started forward, intent on stopping the tongue lashing—or at least turning it toward me so the woman could escape.