This set off a slew of almost-forgotten stories that grandmothers had passed down to their granddaughters about the magic man, most of them warnings. Nana Osgood hadn’t been exaggerating about just how forceful Tucker Devlin’s personality had been. He was still talked about in awe, even if everyone had relegated him to fiction.
He was living on in stories, stories that had been unearthed because his skeleton had been unearthed. But a man like that deserved to never be thought of again. Why couldn’t he have just stayed buried? No good had come of this.
A ripple of exclamations started to roll throughout the gathering, and Paxton looked up to see that a black-and-yellow bird had found its way under the canopy and was flying around, causing people to duck. It flew in circles for a few minutes, bumping against the canopy, until it finally made its way out.
And when it was gone, everyone had forgotten what they were talking about.
Finally, Moira asked that everyone take their seats. She gave a short self-congratulatory speech about the lunch, then almost forgot to introduce the group they had sponsored that year, a quartet of Ukrainian violinists. Lunch was then served, beautiful food garnished with edible roses and tasting of lavender and mint and lust. People closed their eyes with each bite, and the air turned sweet and cool. The quartet played ravishing melodies that were strange and exotic. There was a curious sense of longing in the air, and everyone felt it. People began to think of old loves and missed opportunities. Unlike most of these functions, no one wanted to leave. Lunch lingered for hours. The quartet went through their repertoire twice. When the plates were cleared for dessert, the quartet announced that they had to leave for the next stop on their tour that night. Everyone stretched at their tables, as if waking up. Moira, standing to the side, looked very pleased with herself.
Paxton turned to Sebastian, who was staring thoughtfully into his glass of wine. “If dessert is ready, I guess that means the caterer is leaving soon. I’m not going to get the opportunity to give my mother’s gift to Claire Waverley, after all. No one is, apparently.”
Someone across the table said something to her, and Paxton turned her head to answer. When she turned back, Sebastian was gone.
She looked around and found him on the periphery of the tables, talking to the young waiter who had been flirting with him earlier. Paxton looked away, a small ache in her chest.
Moments later, Sebastian leaned in from behind her and said into her ear, “I’ve found a way to get you into the kitchen. Come with me.”
Without a word, Paxton grabbed her purse and the gift, and followed Sebastian. There were a lot of people standing now, stretching their legs, so they managed to get back into the house unnoticed.
The cute young waiter was waiting for them. “Follow me,” he said with a wink and a smile.
Paxton looked to Sebastian. He’d done this just for her. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll wait for you in the living room.”
The waiter, whose name was Buster, was both sweet and outrageous. He was working his way through culinary school in Bascom. He got her past the person sitting outside the kitchen door, a guard of some sort that Moira had posted there in order to keep Claire Waverley all to herself, like a witch in a children’s story.
Paxton was so surprised and touched by Sebastian’s act that as soon as she walked into the kitchen, her agenda changed in a flash. It was there so suddenly, she didn’t have time to think it through. She was just going to do it. She put the gift on a shelf by the door and walked forward. She had one opportunity, and she was going to take it. Maybe she could still make this happen.
Two women were standing next to a stainless-steel prep table that was littered with flowers, making it look like bright confetti had been thrown onto it in an impromptu celebration. They were amazingly composed, as still as snow. Paxton felt a little leery as she approached them.
Rich women always have their ears to the ground, listening for the buzz of something new, something that will make them happier, younger, better. Once word of a dermatologist with a miracle cream gets out, that dermatologist is booked for months. Once a personal trainer at the gym is declared the best, everyone wants him. So it was with Claire Waverley, a beautiful, mysterious caterer who it was rumored could make your rivals jealous, your love life better, your senses stronger, all with the food she created. Her specialty was edible flowers, and once it got out that she had something no one else had, everyone wanted her. But she was notoriously hard to book.
“Claire Waverley?”
“Yes?” Claire said, turning around. She was in her forties, with beautifully cut hair and a quiet intensity.
“My name is Paxton Osgood.”
“Hello,” Claire said. She put her arm around the young woman beside her. “This is my niece, Bay.”
“Nice to meet you,” Paxton said.
Bay smiled. There was definitely a family resemblance. The dark hair, the gamine features. But Claire’s eyes were sharp and dark, and Bay’s were bright blue. Bay was probably fifteen—skinny, awkward, and completely charming. She was wearing so many braided bracelets that they covered half her arm, her T-shirt read: IF YOU ASK ME, I’LL TELL YOU, and she had an old Romeo and Juliet paperback stuffed into the back pocket of her jeans.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Paxton said.
“You’re not. Our work is done. Dessert is ready.” She gestured to the large trays of custard cups, ready for the waiters to pick up. “Cups of lemon crème layered with hazelnut shortbread crumbles, pansies, lavender, and lemon verbena.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Bay, take that box out to the van, please.” As soon as the girl was gone, Claire said, “You have a question.”
She was used to this, Paxton realized. She was used to lovesick people wanting something from her—a cure, a potion, a promise. It was in her eyes. She’d seen it all before. The longing. The desperation. She knew what Paxton was going to ask before she said it.
Paxton looked over her shoulder to make sure no one else was near enough to hear. “Can you really make people feel differently with the food you cook, with the drinks you prepare?”
“I can change moods. What I can’t do is change people. There is no magic for that. Who are you looking to change?”
The words brought her up short. She didn’t want Sebastian to change. And being in love wasn’t something that was wrong. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, change that. She realized this was her last-ditch effort to make things go her way. Find what makes you happy, her brother had said. This didn’t bring her happiness, so why was she pursuing it? It was time, she realized, to finally give up. “No one, I guess,” Paxton said.
Claire gave her a small, understanding smile. “It’s for the best. The harder we fight, the worse it gets. I speak from experience.”
Paxton walked out of the kitchen, a little numb. But that was okay. She actually preferred it. She walked to Moira’s living room to find Sebastian.
Despite his delicate features and slim build, he could give off such a lord-of-the-manor vibe when he wanted to, lofty and untouchable. That’s what he looked like now, sitting on the leather couch, staring out the window. He turned when he heard her approach.
He looked surprised. “You didn’t give her the gift.”
Paxton looked at the wrapped box in her hands. “No. I think I’d like to go home.”
He uncrossed his legs and stood. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch and walked toward her silently. Once outside, Sebastian gave the valet his ticket. To the right, Paxton could see the Ukrainian performers climbing into a large white van. Without another thought, she went over to them and handed them her mother’s gift and said, “Thank you. It was beautiful.”