Part 2
Mara’s thumb moved once, replaying something.
Adrian’s face changed in stages.
Alarm first.
Then disbelief.
Then a stillness Eleanor recognized from the few times she had seen his father truly angry. It was not the anger of shouting. It was the anger of a door being locked.
“Where is Mrs. Mercer’s bag?” he asked.
No one answered.
Mara pointed toward the black handbag near the table.
Adrian helped Eleanor step out of the pool. He kept one arm behind her shoulders until he felt her balance settle. Then he crossed to the bag.
Celeste moved half a step forward.
“Adrian, this is becoming ridiculous.”
He crouched and opened the zipper.
Eleanor could hear the small metallic catch she had meant to have repaired.
Adrian reached inside.
He withdrew the diamond brooch between his thumb and forefinger.
Sunlight broke along its edges. The piece was shaped like a cluster of laurel leaves, each leaf set with small stones around a larger diamond. Eleanor had polished it once when Celeste left it on a vanity during a weekend visit. It had been insured for more than Eleanor had earned in four years.
Adrian stood.
Celeste’s faint smile disappeared.
Her eyes widened, though only slightly. Color drained from her face around the lips. She pressed one hand against the emerald fabric at her waist, and Eleanor saw the rise of her breath become shallow and quick.
Adrian returned to Eleanor’s side.
He held the brooch where Celeste could see it.
“You planted it,” he said.
Several guests turned toward Celeste at once. Others looked away, perhaps out of discomfort, perhaps because they had already begun calculating what version of the afternoon would be safest to repeat.
Celeste stared at Adrian.
“I did no such thing.”
Mara kept the phone close to her body.
Adrian’s mother appeared at the top of the staircase.
Lydia Vale was seventy-one, elegant, narrow-shouldered, and dressed in dove-gray silk. She had spent the afternoon moving between donors with the endurance of someone who considered hospitality a form of military service. Now she gripped the stone balustrade.
“What is happening?” she called.
Adrian did not take his eyes off Celeste. “The reception is over.”
A ripple of confusion passed through the terrace.
Lydia descended three steps. “It is not over. The pledge announcement is at five.”
“It’s over.”
“Adrian.”
He looked at Mara. “Call the head of security. Preserve every recording from noon onward. No one accesses the system except him and outside counsel.”
Mara nodded and began typing.
Celeste’s posture sharpened. “Outside counsel?”
“Yes.”
“For this?” She gave a small laugh that arrived half a second too late. “You saw a piece of video on a phone. You don’t even know what you saw.”
“I saw you open Mrs. Mercer’s handbag.”
“I was looking for my brooch.”
“You were holding it.”
The silence afterward felt different. Before, the guests had been waiting to learn whether Eleanor was guilty. Now they were waiting to learn how much damage Celeste might do while trying to escape.
Celeste’s eyes flicked toward the staircase.
A broad man in a navy suit had begun coming down beside Lydia. Victor Arden, Celeste’s father, did not hurry. His white hair and tanned face gave him the polished solidity of an old campaign photograph. He had donated six million dollars to the Vale Coastal Children’s Fund over the previous decade and promised twice that amount for its new rehabilitation center.
He stopped at the edge of the gathering.
“Let’s take a breath,” he said.
Eleanor nearly laughed.
She did not. Her teeth had started to chatter.
Adrian noticed. He turned toward a young server standing near the hydrangeas.
“Bring towels. And ask Mrs. Delaney to prepare the blue sitting room.”
The server put down his tray and hurried away.
Victor glanced at Eleanor as if she were an inconvenient witness at a business meeting. “There has obviously been a misunderstanding.”
“No,” Adrian said. “There hasn’t.”
“Then there has been a lapse in judgment. Those happen too.”
Celeste’s head turned toward her father. The glance lasted only a moment, but Eleanor saw something frightened pass between them.
Lydia reached the bottom of the stairs.
She took in Eleanor’s soaked uniform, Adrian’s ruined shoes, the brooch in his hand, and Mara’s phone.
“Everyone inside,” she told the guests. “Please. The staff will see that your cars are brought around.”
It was the voice she used during storms and funerals. It allowed no discussion.
People began moving, slowly at first. A man near the champagne table took out his phone. Mara saw him and stepped into his path.
“Please don’t record Mrs. Mercer.”
He lowered the phone, embarrassed but not apologetic.
The quartet had stopped completely. One musician bent to secure her violin in its case. Waiters gathered trays with trembling care. Guests whispered as they passed through the French doors, careful not to appear eager.
Eleanor stood in Adrian’s jacket, dripping onto the terrace.
Celeste remained where she was.
“Give me the brooch,” she said.
Adrian closed his fingers around it.
“No.”
“It belongs to me.”
“It’s evidence.”
Victor’s expression cooled. “That is an unnecessarily theatrical word.”
“It was found in the handbag of an employee your daughter publicly accused of theft.”
“You are not a lawyer.”
“No. Which is why I’m calling one.”
Lydia stepped between them before Victor could answer.
“Adrian, take Eleanor inside.”
Eleanor flinched at the use of her first name. Lydia had called her Eleanor in private for years, but never in front of guests. Publicly she was Mrs. Mercer, a formality that had once felt respectful and now felt like part of the house’s furniture.
“I should go home,” Eleanor said.
“You are soaked,” Lydia replied.
“I can change downstairs.”
Adrian looked at his mother. “She’s not going downstairs.”
May you like
Lydia’s eyes tightened.
There were three guest suites on the main floor and eight bedrooms above. The staff changing rooms were in the service wing below the kitchen. Eleanor understood what Adrian meant, and so did his mother.
