Part 3
“The florist said they would spread as the water moves.”
“The water barely moves.”
“They looked farther apart on the plan.”
“Plans are where bad ideas go to appear obedient.”
Lena glanced down at the tablet. “I will tell her.”
“No. Leave them.”
“You just said—”
“I said they are too close together. I did not say the world would end.”
They walked beneath the linen canopy. The courtyard smelled of citrus leaves, cut stems, coffee, and the faint mineral coolness of water. Natural light touched the pale stone and returned in soft reflections that shifted across the undersides of the tables.
At the staircase, Margaret stopped again.
Along the inner curve of the rail were shallow marks made by Julian’s toy cars when he was five. A contractor had once offered to polish them out. Margaret had refused.
She placed two fingers against one scratch.
Lena watched her.
“He is nervous,” Lena said.
“He is thirty-two years old.”
“Those things can coexist.”
“Not attractively.”
“He changed his tie three times.”
Margaret removed her hand from the rail. “Which one did he choose?”
“The dark one.”
“They are all dark.”
“The least blue dark one.”
“That was correct.”
A door opened at the far end of the courtyard. Voices entered before the people did.
Camille came through with two women from the floral team and a man carrying a garment bag. She wore the emerald dress though the luncheon was hours away, the fabric fitted cleanly through the waist and falling to mid-calf. The off-shoulder neckline showed a diamond necklace chosen to look inherited.
Her dark hair rested in soft waves around her face. Her makeup was light enough to suggest she needed little and precise enough to prove otherwise.
She was speaking about the flowers.
“The centerpieces are beautiful,” she said, “but the white roses near the head table look slightly gray.”
“They are a natural variety,” one florist explained.
“They photograph gray.”
“In direct light, perhaps.”
“We are in a glass courtyard.”
The florist pressed her lips together.
Camille noticed Lena and changed expression with impressive speed. Warmth appeared without effort.
“There you are. Please tell me the musicians have stopped asking for another outlet.”
“They have what they need,” Lena said.
“And the terrace microphone?”
“Tested.”
“The photographer wants access to the north gallery.”
“He has it after eleven.”
Camille nodded. She did not ask why Margaret was standing beside Lena. Her eyes touched the navy dress, the cane, the plain shoes, and the softened cuffs.
The assessment lasted less than a second.
“Could someone move those extra boxes?” Camille asked, gesturing toward three sealed cartons near the service door.
Lena looked at her tablet. “The rental company is collecting them.”
“They are visible from the staircase.”
“They will be gone before guests arrive.”
Camille turned toward Margaret. “Would you mind asking someone to take care of those?”
The words were polite. The assumption beneath them was complete.
Margaret looked at the boxes.
Then she looked at Lena, who had become very interested in the tablet screen.
“I suppose I could ask,” Margaret said.
“Thank you.”
Camille was already turning away.
Margaret watched her cross toward the pool. Her posture was excellent. She thanked the florist without meeting her eyes and bent to move one floating gardenia half an inch to the left.
Lena exhaled through her nose.
“Do not,” Margaret said.
“I did not say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to tell her.”
“No.”
“She thinks you work here.”
“I do work here.”
“You founded the place.”
“A distinction with declining practical value.”
Lena lowered the tablet. “Julian would not find this amusing.”
“Julian is not required to find everything amusing.”
“Neither am I.”
Margaret looked again at Camille, who was arranging the visual world around herself with small movements of her fingers.
“Let her be,” she said.
Lena knew that tone. It did not mean forgiveness. It meant Margaret was watching.
“You promised not to test her.”
“I promised not to interrogate her.”
“This feels adjacent.”
“I walked through a door. She supplied the rest.”
Lena studied Margaret’s face. “He loves her.”
“I know.”
“That matters.”
“It is the only reason I came.”
The answer quieted them both.
A catering cart rattled over the threshold, one wheel squeaking. Margaret stepped aside. The young man pushing it apologized, though he had done nothing wrong. She asked his name.
“Evan, ma’am.”
“How long have you worked here, Evan?”
“Three weeks.”
“Then you should know the west kitchen floor slopes toward the wrong drain.”
He stared at her.
Lena said, “She is not joking.”
“I thought it was the cart,” Evan said.
“It is the building,” Margaret told him. “Most inconveniences are.”
He smiled uncertainly and continued toward the kitchen.
Camille looked back.
This time she watched Margaret longer.
“Lena,” she called, “could I borrow you?”
The two women moved toward the glass doors leading to the gallery. Margaret stayed near the pool, pretending to study the floating flowers while their voices carried through the courtyard.
“I thought all temporary staff were supposed to be in uniform,” Camille said quietly.
“She is not temporary staff.”
“Then who is she?”
“Someone Julian invited.”
Camille glanced toward Margaret. “From the foundation?”
“You can ask Julian.”
“I am asking you.”
“And I am coordinating a luncheon.”
Lena’s tone remained courteous, but a pause followed.
Camille folded her arms. “There are going to be photographs everywhere today. I cannot have people wandering into the background.”
“People will be in the background.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
That answer did not please her.
Margaret turned away before either woman could notice she had heard. She looked down at the water and saw her reflection divided by the shadows of the flowers.
She could have ended the misunderstanding then.
May you like
She could have crossed the courtyard, extended her hand, and said, I am Margaret Wainwright. I built the room in which you are about to celebrate marrying my grandson.
The sentence formed with satisfying clarity.
