Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I told Blake about the garden theme idea in a vague way earlier, but without her input, I'll be flying blind. Or maybe I’ll be able to pull it off. I’m good at organizing things. If I need help, I can always ask Dora.
I can't just sit here stewing; it'll drive me crazy. Pushing up from the sofa, I tuck the phone away and head toward the kitchen, figuring Dora will be my best bet. After all, she's been around for years and knows the ins and outs of this place better than anyone. Even though it is her day off, I can hear the faint sounds of her pottering about in the kitchen.
The hallway's quiet, my espadrilles whispering on the polished hardwood, past the gallery wall with its framed photos of Freya as a baby, Blake looks younger and less guarded in some of them, and Carolyn looks cool and composed in all of them.
The kitchen door's ajar, and as I push it open, the warmth hits me first—the oven's on, filling the air with the savory scent of roasting garlic and herbs, maybe a chicken or something bubbling away inside. Dora's at the island, her back to me, chopping vegetables with quick, efficient strokes, the knife thudding rhythmically on the cutting board. She's in her crisp white blouse and black slacks, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a neat bun, and she glances over her shoulder as I enter, her expression softening just a touch.
"Mrs. Bessant," she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her voice steady with that faint accent I think is from somewhere in Eastern Europe, maybe Poland. "I’m making myself some dinner. Can I get you something?"
I hesitate in the doorway, feeling a bit like an intruder even now, but I step in fully. "Actually, yeah—if you have a minute? I’d like to pick your brains. And maybe some tea? I've got a bit of a headache coming on." It's not entirely a lie; the nervousness is starting to throb at my temples, and tea might settle me.
“Of course,” she says with a nod, and moves to fill the kettle at the sink. “What kind of tea would you like?”
“Anything will do, but green tea, if you have it, would be nice.”
“We have green tea,” she says, moving towards the cupboards, and pulling out an expensive black and silver tin.
While the kettle boils, she pulls a teapot, cups and saucers from the cabinet, white porcelain with a gold rim. “Please sit," she invites, gesturing to one of the barstools, and I do, perching on the edge, my fingers tracing the veined pattern in the granite.
The kettle whistles after a minute, piercing the quiet, and she pours the steaming water into the teapot to warm it first, then pours it out before spooning loose tea into the pot. The aroma flowers instantly—as calming as freshly cut grass.
“We’ll let it brew for a few minutes.”
She goes back to expertly chopping carrots. Bright orange slices pile up. Once all the carrots are chopped up, she transfers them into a pot and puts the pot on the stove. A few minutes later, she slides a cup of fragrant, clear green liquid over to me, along with a small saucer of lemon slices. "Here. It'll help."
"Thanks, Dora," I murmur, wrapping my hands around the cup, the heat seeping into my palms. I take a sip, the tea hot on my tongue, soothing as it goes down, and I let the silence stretch for a second, gathering my thoughts. I can tell she's listening, her movements a little slower. "I wanted to ask you about something, actually. The annual charity event? I've decided to do something new this year, and I thought it might be different and fun to do something in the gardens, you know? Make it look enchanted with lots of fairy lights, and call it An Affair in the Garden? Do you think I could make that work? Do you think people would go for it?"
She pauses mid-chop, the knife hovering, and turns to face me fully, her dark eyes searching my face like she's trying to read between the lines. There's a flicker there—surprise, maybe, or something sharper, but she sets the knife down carefully. "Last year? It was the Medieval Castle theme, and we managed to transform the main lawn of a country hotel into something out of a fairy tale. It was a very nice event, but in my opinion, we can easily outdo that by throwing an enchanted-garden themed party here in these grounds. It would be something everybody would love. I’m sure of that."
I nod, sipping more tea to hide my relief. Okay, she makes it all sound plausible, and I can picture it, the kind of high-society setup you'd see in magazines like Town & Country. The green tea works its magic and eases the knot in my stomach a fraction. I lean forward, genuinely interested now, the details of how The Affair in the Garden could look, painting a vivid picture in my head—the glow of fairy lights, the murmur of well-heeled guests mingling on the grass, glasses clinking with champagne.