It was the kind of fantasy life that so many thought they wanted to live.
She knew the truth, however. After all these years working at Easterly, she was well aware that the rich were not inoculated against tragedy.
Their cocoon of luxury just made them think they were.
God, those spreadsheets that Rosalinda had left behind—
“Quite a sight, isn’t it.”
Lizzie looked over. “Miss Aurora—I can’t believe you’re out here. You never leave the kitchen during the brunch.”
The woman’s tired eyes surveyed the guests, the setup, the uniformed waiters with the sterling silver mint julep cups on sterling silver trays. “They’re moving my food.”
“Of course they are. Your menu is exquisite.”
“The champagne flutes are holding.”
Lizzie nodded and refocused on the crowd. “We’ve got about a hundred in reserve at the moment. The waiters are doing a great job.”
“Where’s your partner?”
For a split second, she almost gave the woman a Lane update. Which was crazy—and wouldn’t have amounted to much. All she knew was that he’d left with Edwin MacAllan, the Master Distiller, about an hour ago. Or had it been two?
“Greta’s over there.” She pointed to the opposite corner. “She’s riding herd on the flutes. Says finding the used ones that have been set aside is an Easter-egg hunt on steroids. Or … at least I think that’s what she said. Her last report had a lot of German in it—usually not the best sign.”
Miss Aurora shook her head. “That wasn’t who I was asking about. It was good to see you and Lane in the same room again.”
“Ah …” Lizzie cleared her throat. “I’m not sure what to say to that.”
“He’s a good boy, you know.”
“Listen, Miss Aurora, there’s nothing going on between him and me.” Other than eight hours of sex the evening before. “He’s married.”
“For now. That woman is trash.”
Can’t disagree there, Lizzie thought. “Well …”
“Lizzie, he’s going to need you.”
Lizzie put up her palms to try to derail the conversation. “Miss Aurora, he and I—”
“You’re going to have to be there for him. There’s a lot that’s going to fall on his shoulders.”
“So you know? About … everything?”
“He’s going to need someone with a level head to stand by him.” Miss Aurora’s face became very grim. “He’s a good man, but he’s going to be tried in ways he never has been. He’s going to need you.”
“What did Rosalinda tell you?”
Before Miss Aurora could answer, a tall, striking brunette woman came up out of the crowd. And instead of passing by, she stopped and put her hand forward. “Lizzie King, my name’s Sutton Smythe.”
Lizzie recoiled—but then got with the program and accepted what was offered. “I know who you are.”
“I just wanted to tell you how incredibly beautiful these gardens are. Astonishing! You and Mrs. von Schlieber are true artists.”
There was nothing lurking behind the woman’s open expression, no falsity, no ulterior anything—and the lack of shady made Lizzie think of Chantal’s fake lady-like stuff.
“That’s very kind of you.”
Sutton took a sip from her mint julep cup, and the massive ruby on her right ring finger glowed. “I’d love to have you over to my property, but I know better—and I respect those boundaries. I did have to let you know how much I respect your talent, however.”
“Thank you.”
“You are so welcome.”
Sutton smiled and walked off—or at least tried to. She didn’t make it far, people crowding around her, talking at her, the women sizing up her clothes, the men sizing up her non-financial assets.
“You know,” Lizzie murmured, “she’s a nice person.”
When there was no reply, she looked over. Miss Aurora was heading back for the kitchen’s door, her gait slow and unsteady as if her feet hurt—and why wouldn’t they. Plus come on, she’d been in the ER how many days ago?
Lizzie was glad the cook had come out for once to see the grand finale of all their collective effort. Maybe next year, they could get her to stay for a little while longer.
Across the tent, Chantal was sitting at a table with seven other women who were versions of her, namely brightly colored, expensive birds with their plumage largely paid for by the men in their lives. In twenty years, after whatever children they had had washed out of their households, they were going to look like wax figurines of themselves, everything jacked up, and filled, and enhanced.
And actually, they did work: Their profession was breeding and remaining attractive to their husbands.
A lot like the mares that had given birth to the thoroughbreds who were racing on that track in a couple of hours.
Lizzie thought of her farm, which she had paid for herself. No one could take that away from her—she had earned it.