One Autumn Night

Chapter Eleven

She geared down, clicking the paddle shifters, and started through the towering iron gates to the Fitzgerald estate. The all white spread looked more like the White House than a home in small town Connecticut, but the rivers of polished stone along either side of the driveway served as a reminder of its rural place in the world.

Abigail realized she'd been holding her breath, remembering how shabby she'd felt in comparison to the grand home with tall columns that flanked the entrance, marking those who walked beneath them as small. At least that was all in the past, she thought, exhaling. Now she wasn't small, she wasn't broken. She was happy with the life she'd built and proud of its imperfections. There was no reason to feel small or lost or alone as she had when she'd been eighteen.

Pulling the car around the fountain in the center of the driveway, she sided up next to a crop of tidily hedged trees with rows and rows of bursting pink stargazer lilies at the skirt. Unconsciously, she swiped at her sweater, straightening imaginary wrinkles, feeling immediately frumpy next to such groomed beauty.

Just a handful of hours more then she was done with the day. Not too much longer, she reminded herself as she pushed open the car door then closed it with a solid thud, glancing around.

Five chimneys regally pierced the sky, standing tall as if on their tiptoes to dominate just that much more. The bubbling fountain was flowing, various staff members scampered around, and the sweet songs of orange-bellied American Robins chirped through the chill like a committee of judges discussing the arrival of each new person.

Probably spies, Abigail mused as she walked around Declan's car to the passenger side. Spies set in place by the formidable Francine Fitzgerald.

Her stomach lurched and her chest tightened at the idea that she'd have to interact with the estate's matriarch at some point throughout the evening. As she forced out another strong exhale she whispered, "I hate this, I hate this, I hate this."

She was sinking, feeling like a small kitten outside of a Turkish prison, and despised that her generally intact self-esteem had dwindled upon arrival. She was a strong, competent woman; it was just a collection of memories that fogged, tricking her into feelings that had tripped her once, but didn't need to trip her twice. She could numb herself to the past and just get through the job, couldn't she?

Yes, yes she could.

Bracing at the sound of the front door opening, she hoped with her whole being not to see Francine walk through it. Abigail turned slowly, peering, as two polished skinny girls holding clipboards stepped out.

Grateful for the small moment of mercy, she pulled trays and tubs from the passenger seat, stacking as many as she could in her arms then pushed the passenger door closed with her hip.

Because she knew the grounds of the mansion—not that she'd ever been welcome there in high school but a few times she'd visited—Abigail made her way around the side of the house, firmly unwilling to step foot inside. She followed the paved walkway lined with more fragrant lilies toward the back where tiered layers of grass gleamed a glorious green amid thick tufts of woods.

Ribbons of twinkle lights dangled and looped around old oak trees, large white tents connected together, and rich autumn colors—deep amber, gilded bronze, burnt red, and velvet brown—tucked around terraced lawns, providing colorful ornament.

It was beautiful, just as it had been the last time she'd been there. But that was a day she preferred to forget, so she pushed it from her mind as she pulled back the opening to the tent.

Musicians were busy setting up at the edge of the dance floor, the PA system squealed as it was tested, and various workers in black and white uniforms folded napkins into elaborate swans, placing them on top of fine bone china.