Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
JULIET
The gravel path crunches under our feet as we make our way back from the garden, that secluded spot by the lake still humming in my veins like a wonderful secret that I will take to my grave.
My thighs brush together with every step, the wetness a reminder of the ache lingering there. I feel warm and satisfied.
Blake's hand stays wrapped around mine—his fingers strong, a little possessive, his thumb tracing idle patterns on my skin that send tiny sparks up my arm. I glance sideways at Blake. There is a small, satisfied curve to his lips, and it makes my stomach flutter all over again.
We reach the side entrance, the French doors off the terrace propped open to let in the air. The house feels quieter now. Blake squeezes my hand before letting go, his eyes meeting mine with that intense gray stare that always makes me feel seen in a way that's both thrilling and terrifying.
“I'll check on Freya," he murmurs, leaning in to brush a quick kiss to my temple, but his warm lips linger. And then he's gone, striding off toward the stairs with that confident gait. My skin is still tingling where he touched.
I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair, which is probably a mess now.
God, that was intense, out there in the open like that.
I’ve never had sex outdoors, but now that I’m back inside, reality creeps in.
The charity event, this "Affair in the Garden" thing that's apparently an annual big deal which I have zero clue about the details of.
The logistics of creating all the nonsense I had sprouted to Blake seem mind boggling.
In fact, the whole project feels like a gaping hole I could fall right through.
I pick up my phone from the table in the conservatory and send a message to Carolyn’s number. My fingers hover for a second, heart picking up pace as I type:
Blake mentioned the charity event? What's the usual setup? How was it handled last year? BTW: Had to improvise and tell him I’m doing it in the garden this year. Please provide all relevant details.
I hit send and stare at the screen like it'll buzz back immediately, but nothing. Just the little "delivered" note, mocking me.
Minutes tick by as I wander towards the painting.
Quickly, I start adding Grandma Frances into the setup.
The painting is done, and still no response.
I check the phone again, willing it to light up, but it's silent.
A knot starts twisting in my gut—nervous, yeah, but more than that, like a low hum of unease that's been building since she told me she saw me curled against her husband.
What if she's ignoring me on purpose?
Or maybe I’m just being unreasonably suspicious.
Or worse, what if I’ve not understood this whole thing? There is something more that I’m not being told. Something else is going on. My mind races, and my palms sweat a little. I tell myself to calm down and stop with the paranoia.
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.
“Remind me, Dora, what food did we serve last year and where did we get it from?”
"Canapés mostly. We got those tiny crab cakes you like from Master’s Kitchens, and everything else was from the Dutch Institute of Food.
The macarons I ordered from the New York branch of Della’s Patisserie, oh, and all the chocolates were made specially for the occasion by the Parisian master chocolatier, Renauld de Montmorency. ”
Her voice is matter-of-fact, but there's a warmth creeping in as she reminisces, and it suddenly occurs to me that the reason Carolyn didn’t think to warn me about this event was because it was not important to her.
Dora had done all the planning and all the hard work.
All she probably had to do was turn out and enjoy herself.
I smile at Dora. “Yeah, I remember now. It was beautiful. You really did a great job, Dora. I don’t know whether I thanked you properly, but I want you to know I was really grateful.”
Dora flushes with pleasure. “Ah, Madam Carolyn. No need to thank me. It was no trouble at all. I was only doing my job.”
“Tell you what, Dora. Shall we plan this year's gala together?"
She smiles broadly, picking up the knife again. "I would like that very much, Madam Carolyn."
I finish the tea and slide off the stool. "I look forward to it. Thanks again for the tea."
She nods, and I head out, the kitchen door swinging shut behind me with a soft whoosh.
As I make my way up the grand staircase, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, and my heart skips as Carolyn's name flashes on the screen. Finally. The message is short and to the point.
Frances and Dora will do it all. You just have to show up in something glam.
I stop midway up the stairs, staring at her reply. For some inexplicable reason, a chill settles over me.