Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Fairfax Mansion had been transformed for the centennial celebration.
The grounds were dotted with workers setting up lighting, constructing temporary structures for outdoor events, and coordinating what looked like an elaborate sound system.
Catering trucks lined the circular drive, and I spotted Adelaide with her infamous clipboard as Dominic found a spot to park the car.
Inside, the grand ballroom was a flurry of organized chaos—mannequins in various states of dress, racks of carefully preserved vintage clothing, and Victor directing it all. But it wasn’t just family and Historical Society volunteers anymore. The space buzzed with an entirely different energy.
Fashion people.
I spotted them immediately—impossibly elegant individuals speaking rapid French, examining vintage pieces with critical eyes, consulting tablets and sketches.
A tall man with silver hair and an impeccably tailored suit was holding court near the windows, surrounded by younger assistants hanging on his every word.
“That’s Philippe Beaumont,” Penny’s voice said from behind us, making me jump. He sidled up beside me, his voice dropping. “The Philippe Beaumont. Like, Vogue cover Philippe Beaumont. Paris Fashion Week Philippe Beaumont. I think I’m going to throw up.”
My friend looked simultaneously thrilled and terrified. He wore a vintage 1920s outfit that looked amazing on him—high-waisted trousers, a crisp white shirt with subtle details, a fitted waistcoat in deep burgundy.
“You look stunning,” I said honestly.
“I look like I’m about to pass out,” Penny corrected, but his eyes were bright.
“Sebastian’s parents arrived yesterday with their entire entourage.
There are actual fashion journalists here.
Fashion Week scouts. Models who survive solely on rations of boiled eggs and wine.
People who could make or break careers with a single Instagram post.” He lowered his voice.
“And I’m modeling. Me. Penny Lee from Vintage Vogue in Millcrest’s Historical District, population twelve thousand, is going to model for people who’ve dressed royalty. ”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, genuinely perplexed. My brain struggled to connect the dots between a simple, small town exhibit and whatever this spectacle was turning into. “I thought Victor and Sebastian decided to just go with the fashion exhibit?”
“They did, but I meant Fashion Week.” Penny’s fingers fluttered through the air, his gaze darting toward the group of fashion elites. “Never mind, I’ll catch you up later.”
“Leo!” Sebastian swept over to greet us, somehow managing to look elegant despite obvious stress.
His amber eyes were bright with creative fervor, his movements quick and purposeful.
Today he wore black from head to toe—fitted trousers, a turtleneck, designer loafers.
“Thank God you’re here. Penny’s been spiraling for the past hour. ”
“I have not been spiraling,” Penny protested.
“Mon ami, you asked me seventeen times if your hair looked okay.” Sebastian’s voice was fond despite the exasperation.
Adelaide suddenly appeared with her clipboard. “Where’s Victor?” She asked, eyes scanning the busy room.
Her gaze landed on me, eyebrows lifting behind her vintage cat-eye glasses. “Oh! Hello, there.”
“Hi Adelaide,” I replied, my lips curving upward.
“Vic’s coordinating with the lighting designer. Again.” Sebastian sighed. “They’re both perfectionists, which means they’ll argue about every spotlight placement until someone commits murder.”
He tilted his head toward Victor, who stood near an elaborate light setup, deep in discussion with a woman holding a color meter. His ice-blond hair was perfectly styled as always, but there was tension in his shoulders.
“And Richard?”
Sebastian’s expression shifted, something complicated crossing his face. “I saw him earlier, heading toward the west wing.”
Adelaide’s mouth tightened, her tongue clicking against her teeth. “I don’t know why he gets like this,” she said as she pivoted sharply and headed toward the grand staircase.
Sebastian turned to Penny. “Come, we need to do your final fitting. The photographer wants to start test shots in twenty minutes.”
Penny shot me a panicked look, and I squeezed his hand. “You’ve got this.”
Sebastian led Penny away toward the fitting area. I watched as he positioned my friend on a raised platform, a seamstress making minute adjustments to the suit he wore. Penny caught my eye and I gave him an encouraging smile, which he returned weakly.
“Want to explore?” Dominic murmured in my ear. “It’ll probably be a while before they’re finished with him.”
I nodded.
We wandered through the ballroom, past racks of carefully preserved clothing and jewelry displays.
Historical Society volunteers were setting up informational plaques, and I spotted several pieces I recognized from my grandfather’s cobbler shop—shoes he’d made or repaired over the decades, now part of the district’s history.
The crowd was thick with preparation activity—Sebastian and Victor’s fashion people mixing with Historical Society volunteers in a furor of elegant decorations and clothing dating from the 1800s to Y2K.
Mrs. Henderson was directing the placement of floral arrangements, her efficient commands cutting through the chatter.
Dominic and I had stopped to examine a display of 1950s poodle skirts and Greaser jackets when movement caught my eye through one of the doorways leading to a quieter hallway. A figure—silver-haired, shoulders hunched—moving slowly, almost shuffling.
Richard Fairfax Sr.
He was alone, walking away from the ballroom toward what I assumed was the west wing Sebastian had mentioned. Even from this distance, I could see the way he moved like a man much older than his seventy-four years.
“Dominic,” I said quietly, touching his arm.
He followed my gaze and tensed immediately. “Leo—”
“I just want to talk to him,” I said. “Maybe…” I trailed off, not quite sure what I hoped to accomplish.
Dominic studied my face for a long moment, then nodded. “Alright,” he said.
We followed at a discreet distance as Richard made his way down the hallway, past family portraits and antique furniture. He stopped at a door—third on the left—and disappeared inside.
I approached quietly and knocked gently on the heavy wood.
“I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.” Richard’s voice came through, hoarse and rough.
“Mr. Fairfax,” I said quietly. “It’s Leo Sterling-Hart. And Dominic Steele. I saw you walking by and…”
A long pause. Then: “Come in.”
The study was exactly what I’d expected—dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, leather furniture that had probably been here for decades.
A massive desk dominated the space, its surface covered with framed photographs and stacks of documents.
But what caught my attention was the wall of windows behind the desk, offering a perfect view of the greenhouse.
That beautiful glass structure was clearly visible through the winter-bare trees, the life inside creating spots of green against the bleak landscape.
Richard stood at those windows, his back to us, staring out at the greenhouse with rigid stillness.
Up close, he looked even worse than Penny had described. His expensive suit hung on a frame that seemed to have lost weight, and his silver hair was uncombed, standing in wild peaks. When he finally turned to face us, his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen in a face gone haggard and pale.
“I’m not exactly presenting as a proper host right now.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been crying or hadn’t slept in days. Probably both.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” I said gently, stepping into the study with Dominic close behind me. “I saw you in the hallway and thought… well, I had some questions. About Thomas. If you’re willing to talk.”
Richard’s shoulders slumped as his gaze drifted back to the greenhouse, his eyes glazing over with the mist of old memories.
“Thomas,” he said quietly. “We met in April 1972, at the inaugural Historical Preservation meeting. He was so excited about preserving the district’s architectural heritage while modernizing the infrastructure.”
He gestured toward the window, toward the greenhouse visible through the glass. “We had our last conversation out there. He walked out of that building and I never saw him again.”
His body swayed, shoulders slouching forward as if the invisible weight of those memories pressed down on him, threatening to buckle his knees beneath him.
“Mr. Fairfax,” Dominic said gently, “perhaps you should sit down.”
Richard nodded numbly, moving away from the windows to sink heavily into one of the leather chairs near the fireplace. I settled into the chair across from him, while Dominic moved to stand behind me, his hand resting on my shoulder.
The position brought me close enough to notice more details—the way Richard’s hands visibly shook, the smell of stale alcohol on his clothes, the deep shadows under his eyes that suggested weeks without proper sleep.
“I attended the memorial service,” Richard said before I could ask my first question. His gaze remained fixed on the window, unable or unwilling to meet my eyes. “Sat in the back where no one would notice me. Listened to you talk about Thomas.”
He expelled a breath that rattled through his chest. “I failed him. I failed him in every way that mattered.”
My hand instinctively moved to my belly, feeling the small swell there. Even wearing a thick, cable knit sweater, my condition was unmistakable to anyone who looked closely. Richard’s gaze followed the movement, and something in his expression crumpled further.
“Mr. Fairfax,” I started carefully. “Were you and Thomas involved? Romantically?”