Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
When we made it back to the fundraiser, the young waitress had set up the table, and it looked exactly like it had before the spill.
She stood off to the side near the service station, with her shoulders still tight as she watched us return. The poor thing looked like she expected Florence to file a formal complaint with the governor’s office over ice water.
“Well,” Florence said as she approached the table, “at least disaster was avoided.”
Tara Kelly gave me a look over Florence’s shoulder. It wasn’t mean-spirited. More tired than anything else.
“I think everything has been lovely,” Tara said kindly, loud enough for the waitress to hear it too.
The girl visibly relaxed.
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said quietly before hurrying off toward another table.
We all sat back down, and fortunately, the lunch service started shortly afterward, which gave those seated at the table something safer to focus on besides one another.
Servers moved among the tables, carrying plates of chicken salad croissants, fresh fruit, pasta salad, and little cups of chilled strawberry soup Mary Elizabeth had insisted would “elevate the experience.” Warm biscuits arrived in baskets lined with cloth napkins while jars of local honey and homemade blackberry jam were passed around.
The conversation loosened some once people started eating. Even Florence seemed temporarily distracted by the fact that the Milkery’s kitchen staff had managed to serve proper tea sandwiches that hadn’t gone soggy sitting in the summer heat.
“That cucumber spread is excellent,” Tara admitted after taking another bite.
Florence dabbed her lips with her napkin. “It is acceptable.”
Alice snorted softly into her tea.
I nearly choked trying not to laugh.
The fundraiser portion itself actually went smoother than I expected.
Queenie French took the microphone near the patio and launched into a passionate speech about preserving Kentucky history while Blue Ethel and the Adolescent Farm Boys sat quietly behind her, looking deeply confused about how they’d ended up at a tea party fundraiser in the first place.
Then came the pledge cards.
And that was when I fully understood why women like Florence Sparks, Tara Kelly, and Alice Charles mattered so much to these events.
The second Florence lifted her little bidding card and announced a donation amount, women at nearby tables started reaching for their own cards.
Tara followed with a sizable contribution toward the depot restoration fund, and Alice committed Daniel Boone National Forest tourism outreach assistance for future events.
Money flowed after that, big money, the kind of money that made Queenie grip the microphone with both hands and blink rapidly while Mary Elizabeth caught my eye from across the lawn and gave me the smallest nod imaginable, her silent way of saying, “See, this is why these women matter.” And unfortunately, she wasn’t wrong.
By the time dessert arrived in the form of tiny lemon cakes and blackberry tarts, most of the tension at the table had softened into polite exhaustion.
The women had settled into safer conversation topics like travel, Kentucky weather, and whether tourists ruined fall foliage season by taking too many photos in the middle of the road.
Eventually, the event started winding down. Chairs scraped against the grass as women stood and wandered toward the farmhouse, the gardens, or the little shop near the produce stand. A few guests made their way toward the bed-and-breakfast to freshen up before tonight’s campground fundraiser.
I was collecting abandoned teacups from the table when I spotted Tara Kelly standing near the side garden beside the farmhouse, with her phone pressed tightly against her ear.
I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. Honestly, I wasn’t. She was talking so loud, her voice carried just enough for me to catch it while I stacked saucers.
“I don’t care if it was accidental,” Tara hissed quietly. “Someone knew exactly what they were doing when they seated me beside Florence Sparks.”
I paused so I could hear without the clinking.
“No. I’m serious. I want to know who arranged that table,” she demanded to the other person on the phone.
Another pause while she listened.
“Because I refuse to spend another fundraiser smiling beside the woman whose affair is a stain, and I won’t be seen next to someone like her.” Her words had a bite to them.
I froze in the middle of stacking saucers. Well, that certainly explained the body language.
Tara turned slightly and noticed a couple approaching from another table, immediately softening her expression back into public-First-Lady mode before ending the call.
I looked right back down at the teacups like I hadn’t heard a thing. Because in small towns and Kentucky politics alike, surviving often depended on pretending you hadn’t heard what you absolutely heard.
I carried the stack toward one of the service tables near the patio and nearly collided with Alice Charles, who stood just beyond the flower planters, talking quietly with another woman from the forestry committee.
“…I’m simply saying Florence needs to step back a little,” Alice said under her breath. “Every single time conservation funding gets brought up, she calls it ‘wasting money on grass and mud.’”
The other woman gave an uncomfortable laugh.
Alice crossed her arms. “The truth is, she needs the state partnerships more than we need her donor list. Kentucky tourism depends on preserving the forest whether Florence likes hiking trails or not.”
I slowed my steps for exactly half a second too long, and Alice noticed me immediately. Her mouth snapped shut as she turned toward me, her expression tightening just enough to let me know I’d heard more than she’d wanted.
I lifted the stack of teacups slightly against my chest and offered an awkward smile.
“Just helping clean up,” I said.
Alice gave a short nod, crossed her arms briefly before letting them fall back to her sides, then turned and headed toward the greenhouse without another word.
I watched her go, realizing that made two women at my table who clearly had issues with Florence Sparks, and somehow I doubted the list stopped there.
Before I could think much more about it, Queenie French’s voice boomed across the lawn.
“Mae!” she hollered, waving one arm dramatically near the patio while she used her other hand to keep fanning herself with one of the fundraiser programs.
I turned to see her waving me toward the patio area beside the farmhouse. Her floral caftan swished around her ankles while she fanned herself dramatically.
“Lord have mercy,” she muttered the second I reached her. “I swear, hosting wealthy women outdoors in Kentucky humidity ought to count as community service.”
“You pulled it off,” I told her honestly. “Everything looked beautiful.”
Queenie narrowed her eyes. “Don’t butter me up yet. How’d Florence behave at your table?”
I hesitated.
Queenie immediately noticed.
“Oh no,” she groaned. “What happened?”
“Nothing major,” I said quickly. “She corrected the waitress a little after the water spill.”
Queenie rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might stay there.
“Of course she did.”
“She also wasn’t exactly thrilled about the roller bottles.”
Queenie snorted. “That woman thinks patchouli is the gateway drug to moral collapse.”
I laughed.
“But honestly?” I added. “Everything turned out okay. They donated. They stayed polite. Nobody threw tea.”
Queenie crossed her arms over her chest and looked out across the lawn, where Florence now stood near the flower beds, speaking to a group of women who all looked vaguely terrified of disappointing her.
“This,” Queenie declared firmly, “is the last fundraiser I host where Florence Sparks gets an invitation.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You say that every year.”
“Yes.”
“And every year she still comes.”
Queenie pointed a finger at me. “That’s because Mary Elizabeth keeps inviting her. Your mother thinks Florence is social royalty.”
“She kind of is,” I admitted.
“She’s exhausting is what she is.” Queenie shook her head. “One day, somebody’s going to snap and dump sweet tea right in that woman’s lap.”
I glanced across the lawn, where Florence stood adjusting the placement of somebody else’s centerpiece while Tara Kelly avoided looking in her direction and Alice Charles walked the opposite way entirely.