Chapter Three
I moved efficiently through the main dining room, making the final adjustments to the lunch table.
I straightened a vase, nudged a chair slightly, and checked that each napkin was perfectly folded, imagining Margaret inspecting every table with a ruler and a magnifying glass.
Sunlight streamed through the tall French doors, catching on the silverware and turning the imported Italian crystal water glasses (imported because “Australian glassware just doesn’t refract the same way”) into tiny works of art.
I ran a fingertip along the edge of the table, feeling that small flicker of satisfaction that came only when everything was in its place, or at least as close as humanly possible under my watch.
This was the first of many wedding week meals we were organising, a soft landing for the early arrivals, and a chance for them to settle in and shake off their travel weariness before the festivities.
By midday, the bridesmaids and groomsmen would start arriving, each with luggage, opinions, distinct personalities, and almost certainly at least one dietary requirement they’d forgotten to mention.
I could practically hear the staff group chat notifications gearing up already.
I stepped back for a final look, making sure the centrepiece didn’t overshadow the view, which was harder than it sounded, considering Caroline’s mother had insisted on a “subtle” floral installation that required a ladder, a pulley system, and three florists working overtime.
It hovered above the table like an art piece from a gallery that charged an entry fee.
Ridiculous and excessive? Absolutely.
Beautiful? Unfortunately, also yes.
Behind me, Cleo flitted around like a nervous bird, notebook clutched to her chest. “Holly, are we ready to go?”
“We weren’t,” I said, shifting a chair by a fraction.
“Now we are.”
She raised a brow. “You know no one else would’ve noticed that, right?”
“That’s why I’m in this business,” I replied.
Cleo chuckled. “Or because you can’t help yourself.”
“Also true,” I admitted, stepping back with quiet satisfaction. The room was nearly ready, and with thirty minutes until lunch, there was still time for the rest of the wedding party to arrive.
The first to appear was Emma Caldwell, Caroline’s maid of honour and a fellow high-powered professional.
I heard the squeal before I saw her, a sharp, delighted sound that carried from the entrance hall. Caroline had clearly spotted her best friend before the car had even stopped moving.
Emma’s car, a sleek black Mercedes that definitely came from a luxury dealership, rolled to a neat, silent stop. Her uniformed driver stepped out with military precision, opening the door as if Emma were arriving at Cannes rather than a vineyard in Western Australia.
Emma swung out in a tailored navy pantsuit that screamed old money, new attitude, her oversized sunglasses covering half her face, and her blonde hair looking like it had been professionally blown out by someone who charged by the minute.
Her suitcase, monogrammed, naturally, wobbled dangerously behind her as she practically skipped forward.
“Caroline!” she called, her voice bright and unrestrained. “Do you have any idea how many hours I’ve been in that car? My back is now shaped like a croissant. It’s tragic.”
Caroline ran forward, arms outstretched, nearly tripping over the abandoned suitcase in her haste. “Emma! Finally! I thought I’d be stuck talking to the grapevines all morning!”
Emma gave the vines a contemplative look over her sunglasses.
“Well, at least they’d be more responsive than my legal team.
And they’re dressed better.” She smirked.
Then she turned and immediately pulled Caroline into a full, tight hug, arms wrapped properly around her, like she’d been waiting to do that since she arrived.
“Oh my God,” she said into her shoulder. “You’re actually getting married!”
She stepped back, hands on Caroline’s shoulders, appraising her friend like she was a fashion exhibit. “You look radiant. Annoyingly radiant.”
Caroline laughed, relieved and glowing.
She leaned in conspiratorially. “Now, I expect a full report on the drama I missed while chained to my desk. Don’t leave out the juicy bits.”
Caroline grinned. “You mean last week’s PR meltdown? You’ll want popcorn for that one.”
Emma’s eyes sparkled. “Brilliant! I live for this.”
As they headed inside, I couldn’t help smiling. The two of them were electric together, sharp, competitive, but somehow completely unfiltered around each other. The kind of friendship that was equal parts admiration and competition.
Entertaining to watch.
Potentially exhausting to manage.
They swept into the hall, already deep in gossip, barely noticing anyone else. Caroline was mid-story, gesturing animatedly, while Emma gasped and giggled at all the right moments.
Then a sharp, polished voice cut through their chatter. “Caroline! Darling, where are you going?”
Caroline froze mid-sentence as Margaret appeared at the top of the staircase, every inch the commanding matriarch, gaze sweeping the room like she was inspecting troops.
“Coming, Mother!” Caroline called quickly. “Just catching up with Emma!”
Margaret descended the stairs with a measured grace. “Catching up, yes, but let’s not forget this is your wedding week. And your cousin Sophie should be arriving any minute.”
Caroline groaned faintly, though her expression stayed intact. “Sophie. Of course.”
Emma chortled under her breath. “Oh, this should be fun.”
Margaret gave a faint, knowing smile. “Just… try to keep her contained, Caroline.”
Caroline raised her hands innocently. “I’ll do my best, Mother.”
As if on cue, an ageing olive-green Jeep bounced onto the gravel outside, tyres crunching loudly before throwing up a dramatic cloud of dust that drifted straight into the potted rosemary by the entrance.
Sophie tumbled out before the tyres had even stopped turning, all limbs and enthusiasm, her long red hair in a messy braid that looked like it had been done by a friendly breeze rather than an actual human.
A paint-splattered canvas bag was slung over her shoulder, the strap held together by what appeared to be… twine?
Her green eyes widened as she stepped forward, taking in the estate with immediate, unfiltered awe. “Oh. My. God.” She pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Are you kidding me? This place is like a painting!”
“Sophie… hi. Glad you could make it,” Caroline said, looping an arm through her cousin’s. Her tone was cheerful but with an unmistakable note of please, for the love of God, behave yourself.
Sophie spun in a slow circle, her braid whipping around like a celebratory ribbon. “This is insane!” she breathed. “The vines! The flowers! This is what heaven looks like if heaven shops at farmers markets and drinks organic rosé! Someone pinch me!”
Emma shot Caroline a look. “I can do that,” she whispered.
Her canvas bag promptly slid off her shoulder and thumped onto the tiles. A half-finished sketchbook popped out, along with three paintbrushes, a stick of charcoal, and something that suspiciously resembled a handmade candle.
Emma, still adjusting her sunglasses nearby, stared at the mess and muttered, “Of course she brought her entire art studio.”
Sophie turned her excitement on Emma. “Emma! Isn’t it brilliant we’re both bridesmaids? We have to catch up later and talk about the hen’s party.” Her grin was wicked.
Emma smirked. “Fantastic. I can already tell I’m the designated adult.”
Sophie laughed and spotted Margaret at the base of the stairs. “Auntie!” she cried, bouncing towards her. “This place is wow! Just, absolutely wow!”
Margaret’s posture remained impeccable, though the faintest hint of amusement glinted in her eyes. “Sophie. Welcome. Try not to get lost in the vines.”
Sophie gave an exaggerated curtsy. “I’ll try, Auntie. But honestly, the vines are practically screaming adventure, don’t you think?”
Margaret’s face softened, the lines around her mouth easing. “Spoken like your father. He was always chasing something just out of reach.”
Sophie’s grin wavered, a brief shadow passing over her face. “Yeah. Grandmother says that about him too.”
“Of course she does,” Margaret said, her tone gentler now. “He was her favourite after all. He’d have liked that you’re here, Sophie, even if your mother couldn’t make it.”
Sophie nodded, the smile returning. “I think he would’ve too.”
Caroline's expression brightened. “Sophie, why don’t we all go up to our rooms together and settle in?”
Sophie grabbed Caroline’s hand, practically bouncing towards the staircase. “Lead the way! But I get first pick of the view, obviously.”
As the ladies headed upstairs, I slipped out towards the estate’s kitchen, heels clicking against the polished stone floor. The kitchen was alive with motion, chefs arranging platters, servers testing water glasses, the air rich with the scent of baked bread and fresh herbs.
I moved through it all with practiced ease, offering calm nods and discreet directions that somehow managed to be both kind and authoritative.
My eyes swept over each station, mentally checking off details: timing, presentation, temperature, everything had to be flawless.
“One last check on the dining room,” I said, mostly to myself.
I adjusted a tray of hors d’oeuvres, straightened a garnish, and turned a fork until it sparkled just right. Nothing escaped my attention, a plate slightly off-centre, a chair just a hair width out of alignment.
“This four-course lunch is the first chance they’ll have to see what we’ve been planning,” I murmured to Cleo, who hovered nearby, notebook in hand. “Impressing them isn’t optional.”
Cleo leaned against one of the chairs, lowering her voice. “You’ve really outdone yourself with this one. The clients are going to lose their very wealthy minds.”
I gave a modest shrug, though a low thrill of pride stirred in my chest. “Let’s hope so. I want them to feel like they’ve stepped into a fairytale.”
Cleo grinned. “Fairytales. Your speciality.”