“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she said out of the corner of her bright-red mouth.
I smiled and straightened, half-heartedly participating in the conversation as I looked out over the party. It was the normal mix of familiar faces atop glittery gowns, the men’s tuxedos evenly mixed in with the colors. While I hadn’t personally met every guest, it was a small town, and we women had formed our own exclusive circle, one that centered around the Menlo country club and branched out.
A waiter bent to deliver a drink, and I watched as a monogrammed napkin fluttered from his tray to the dark wood floor. Excusing myself from the group, I moved toward the fallen item, checking on details as I went. Caviar buffet, stocked. The band was halfway through their set, the soft blues pairing well with the clink of champagne flutes and laughter. I was pleased to see that the great room wasn’t crowded, guests evenly dispersed between our home’s indoor and outdoor spaces.
“Cat!” A statuesque older woman approached, her gold gown brushing the floor as she reached out with both hands and fiercely gripped my shoulders. “I never had a chance to thank you for the donation to our new rehab clinic.”
I smiled at Madeline Sharp, one of the largest donors to tonight’s event and the chairwoman of a New York City charity for drug addicts. “I’ll pass on the thanks to William. It was his doing, not mine.”
“Oh!” She shushed me. “We all know who’s really holding the purse strings, dear. Men wouldn’t know where their shoes went if we weren’t there to point to their feet.”
I laughed, the visual so false in regard to my highly capable husband, one who had led covert operations in Afghanistan, managed his firm with cutthroat efficiency, and would go barefoot out of spite rather than take instructions on his footwear. Still, she was right about the purse strings. William hadn’t been aware of the six-figure donation. While my husband had many distractions on his time, our money—and how I spent it—wasn’t one of those.
“You’ll have to come to the clinic once it’s done,” she urged me. “We’re heading there for the summer. It’ll be set up by fall!”
Another bird, this one flying east. I felt a moment of presummer blues, our full life always a little lonely once our jeweled town vacated. Just as quickly, I reminded myself of the positives. Peace and quiet. Time for just William and me to focus on our marriage and refortify our bond. We always left each summer stronger. Closer.
We are a team, he once said to me. Summer is our season.
“Maybe we can make it to the opening.”
“Absolutely, you must. Now, I’ve got to go find my husband.” Madeline leaned forward and placed a baby powder–soft kiss on my cheek. I smiled, clasping her in a hug, then watched her leave.
“Crab cake, Mrs. Winthorpe?”
I glanced to my right and nodded at the waiter, taking a miniature creation off the silver tray and placing the petite stack on my tongue. I crushed the delicate layers of crab and crust in my mouth, the key-lime sauce playing nicely with the flavors, and watched as a couple moved through the arched opening of the east balcony.
At first glance, they fit in well. An attractive blonde, paired with a balding and stocky husband. Late thirties, though the blonde was trying hard to hide the fourth decade. As I watched them weave through the crowd, the minor details emerged. Her dress, an off-the-rack number that could be found at a discount retailer, if an aspiring woman hunted hard enough. His cheap watch, the rubber band sticking out from the sleeves of a tuxedo that looked rented. I returned my attention to her, watching as she wound through my party, her eyes scanning over the room, her husband trailing obediently behind.
I moved through the crowd, keeping her in my sights, and mentally clicked through the guests I had invited. Everyone on the exclusive list was a well-known Winthorpe Foundation donor or board member. I stopped next to one of the butlers and gave a subtle nod toward the couple, who had stopped beside our Picasso and were admiring the painting. “Franklin, who is that couple by the staircase? The woman in the blue dress?”
He nodded with a pleasant smile, his eyes never roving over to the area, his professionalism impeccable. “That’s Matthew and Neena Ryder, Mrs. Winthorpe.”
My gaze sharpened. “They weren’t on the list.”
“I believe they are guests of your husband.”
Well, that was interesting. I nodded with a grateful smile. “Wonderful. Thank you for the information.”
“Absolutely, Mrs. Winthorpe. It’s my pleasure. May I get you a glass of champagne? Or perhaps something from the cellar?”
“No.” I stepped away, anxious to find William.
“Mr. Winthorpe is on the veranda.”
I paused and met his gaze. “Thank you, Franklin.” I made a mental note to pad his tip appropriately.
I was a few steps onto the veranda when a hand curled around my waist, pulling me back. I turned and melted into William’s side.
“Hey,” he said softly, a grin tugging at his lips as he looked down at me.
Devastatingly handsome. That was how my mother first described him, and it was apt. I held him at bay for a moment, examining his strong arrangement of features, then pressed my lips against his, enjoying the protective way his hand tightened on the small of my bare back.
“The silent auction is going well.” He nodded to the balcony, where long glass tables displayed two dozen different items. As I watched, a woman in a beaded gown and a massive emerald ring bent forward and picked up a pen. I had spent the past month soliciting items for the auction, which ranged from an Alaskan spa getaway to a Menlo country club initiation fee.
“Franklin said you added a couple to the guest list.” I ran my hand through his short dark hair, then tugged gently on a thick tuft of it.
He nodded. “Our new hire at the company. Dr. Ryder and her husband.”
How incredibly sexist of me to assume that Dr. Ryder had been a man. I remembered William’s mention of a new employee, some sort of motivational coach for his staff. We’d been at dinner, and I’d been distracted by an odd taste to the pâté and had barely paid attention to his enthusiastic mention of the doctor who he believed would solve the morale issue at Winthorpe Technologies.
Money would solve the morale issue. The team had spent four years on a new medical device that could replace pacemakers; pass through metal detectors; and reduce allergic reactions, infections, and surgery complications by more than half. The team’s profit sharing and bonus structures were tied into the successful launch of the product, which had already dragged eighteen months past expectations. Everyone was tired and frustrated. We’d lost our top technician last month, and there was a general feeling of dissension among the ranks.
William was über-intelligent, decisive, and charming. He was also a cutthroat workaholic who valued money over personnel and demanded perfectionism without excuses. Leading a team had never been his forte, and I feared that Winthorpe Tech’s staff was close to mutiny.
“Here she is now. Neena,” he said warmly, and in that smile, you’d never think that he had kept the team working on Christmas or cut bonuses as punishment for a failed FDA trial. “This is my wife, Catherine.”
“Cat,” I said, extending my hand. Her grip could have cracked an egg, and I fought back a wince.