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Caitlyn
The slant of the afternoon sunlight created a magical aura around the Wests’ stone castle and surrounding grounds. Among dark evergreens and bony trees, leaves glowed gold and orange on the few trees that hadn’t shed their leaves.
People flitted around the grounds, preparing for the party. Caterers bustled around the spit roast, the big purple tent next to it, and the rows of tables and chairs they’d set up earlier. White tablecloths, held down by jack-o-lanterns, soon covered every table and fluttered in the occasional breeze. The boys with the Fire Starters had already come, put strings of white lights everywhere, and gone home to get into costume.
Caitlyn couldn’t have asked for better weather for the party. Thank you, Lord. Who wanted to wear a coat over a costume? Until the sun went down, she wouldn’t even need the cape she had made for herself after making Keefe’s monk outfit.
She and Zoe had strolled the grounds to see where they could help. Finding nothing to do, they stood in the shade of the front porch and watched Jarret rant at the stage set-up crew in the sprawling front lawn. His musketeer tabard flapped with his every exaggerated gesture. Evidently, they had put the stage and/or the dance-floor platform in the wrong spot.
“The costume fits him well. Don’t you think?” Zoe said. She wore a matching Renaissance Lady costume with a long velveteen black skirt, puffy black and white striped sleeves, and a silky white bodice.
“By fits him, do you mean it’s the right size? Because, yes, it fits him well. He makes for a handsome musketeer.”
She giggled. “I meant, sometimes Jarret can be so pompous. Just look at him.”
Jarret snatched the feathered hat from his head and used it to point here and there. The crew nodded their heads at whatever he said.
Caitlyn didn’t want to say, but they both fit their costumes well. The elegant silk, ruffles, and frills suited them. They both had class and poise and often seemed conceited. Not that she thought Zoe was truly conceited.
“Where’s Roland?” Zoe said. “Have you seen his costume?”
“I think he went to put it on. I have no idea what it is? Do you?”
She shook her head. “He’s very mysterious. What about Peter?”
“He’s out back getting the bonfire ready,” Caitlyn said. “He was going to come as James Bond, but Roland and I talked him out of it. I suggested he come as a farmer. Roland thought woodsman, you know, like Daniel Boone. Peter didn’t like either idea, but we all agreed on Luke Skywalker.”
“Before he becomes a Jedi or after?”
“Before, of course. He’s wearing dingy white. It looks natural on him.”
They laughed.
Jarret put his hat on and strutted toward them. Possessing a masculinity that his long tresses, frills, and lace could not diminish, he mounted the steps and took Zoe in his arms. “Hey, gorgeous. You look hot.” He kissed her with a passion Caitlyn didn’t expect to encounter until her wedding night. Then he whispered in her ear, “I have something for you,” and he looked at Caitlyn as if just noticing her.
Hating that she stood so close, Caitlyn smiled politely. “I think I’ll go find Roland.” She gathered up her skirt, feeling like a milkmaid next to the two of them, and stumbled off the porch.
“He’s by the hog,” Jarret shouted.
Caitlyn waved to show her appreciation then half jogged, half walked toward the spit roaster, weaving around people busy about their tasks.
Nothing could compare to the rich, fatty meat smell of roasting pig. The chefs cooked other things, too, on portable grills, and the mixture of savory smells made her stomach growl. She couldn’t wait to eat.
Mr. West spoke with one of the white-clad chefs. In addition to the cowboy hat, he wore chaps and a gun belt over his jeans, and spurs on his boots. He probably owned all the parts for his costume and hadn’t needed to buy anything. Maybe he’d been a ranch hand or a cowboy in his younger years.
Four teens in costume strolled up the driveway, walking side by side. Two wore black robes. One carried a scythe. The other had a curly white judge wig. Then came an angel in a long flowing gown, and last, the devil himself.
Caitlyn laughed. Then her gaze landed on a figure in the driveway, just beyond the spit.
A man in black. He stood with his back to her, but her heart recognized him. Roland! He wore slim black pants, a black long-sleeved shirt, and a Spanish gaucho hat.
Picking up her pace, she glimpsed another figure standing in front of him. A blonde in a white dress. Marilyn Monroe Mya!
Mya handed Roland a long white fur coat, stepped back, and spun in a circle. Her white halter dress billowed out, making her look like Marilyn Monroe standing over the subway grating.
Roland just stood there, watching.
She spun and spun then stopped, swooned, and grabbed her head. His arms flew out, catching her before she fell. She laughed flirtingly as he helped her regain her balance, but she didn’t let go of his arm.
And he didn’t let go of hers. They stood so close, him looking down at her, her gazing up.
A sinking feeling and a deep groan rumbled in Caitlyn’s chest. Jealousy, or maybe disappointment, bubbled up inside. She turned and walked away.
Roland did like Mya. Caitlyn saw it with her own two eyes. Well, she couldn’t see his face but she saw Mya’s, and Mya definitely liked him. Did he have to catch her like that? Well . . . not that Caitlyn would’ve wanted him to stand there and watch her fall to the ground. But did he have to keep holding her?
With her skirt draped over one arm so she wouldn’t trip on the hem, Caitlyn stomped off. Her skirt, she should’ve admitted it sooner, hung way too low.
Caitlyn stopped at the drink table and offered to help, wanting to keep busy and to keep what she’d just witnessed off her mind, but they didn’t need her. She stomped to the snack table, but they didn’t need help either. So she went around to the backyard, to where Peter and his father had been for the past hour.
They weren’t there. The wood for the bonfire was all set up, camp chairs surrounding it. There was absolutely nothing left to do—except to think of how Roland liked Mya.
Caitlyn plopped down in a camp chair and groaned. Then she made fists and stomped her feet, quite childishly. She took a breath and smoothed her skirt. Why should she care? No. She didn’t care. She didn’t care one bit.
Jumping to her feet, she spun around the chair and smacked into someone.
“Oh, sorry,” Caitlyn said, stumbling back.
“Hi.” Keefe West stood before her dressed in the long, brown monk outfit she had sewn. He pushed the hood off his head. “You’re Caitlyn, right? I mean, I’ve seen you. I guess, well, we’ve just never met. Have we?” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Keefe.”
Caitlyn shook his hand and lowered her eyes, her gaze happening to land on the hem of his costume. It was ripped! All the way around, the hem had been ripped off and much too short. Why, she could see his ankles!
Her stomach turned. The costume must’ve been too long on him, and he’d tried to remedy it himself. He’d paid her so much, too. In her defense, they hadn’t met once during the process. She’d called Roland with questions. Roland told Keefe. Nanny measured things. Keefe should’ve at least come over and tried the thing on.
“I’m sorry,” Caitlyn said, glancing up at him.
“You’re not Caitlyn?”
“What?”
He smiled. “I wanted to thank you. You did a great job with my costume.”
“No, I didn’t.” Not wanting to look at the dreadful hem again, she looked at the horse stables in the distance behind Keefe. “I’m sorry I bumped into you. And you should probably get some money back for the robe. You paid me way too much.” She stepped around him.
“No, I-I should’ve paid you more. It was a last minute request.”
Caitlyn kept walking, feeling stupid in every way. She did a great job? Keefe was just being polite.
“Thanks again,” he shouted.