“Are you ready yet, Harley?” Tina scuttled through the shop’s back door, bringing a current of cold wind and the faint aroma of baked goods with her. She wore a hot pink sweater, matching miniskirt, and silver stilettos with white puffs of fur on the toes. A heart of silver beads glittered from her sweater.
“Ready for what?” It was a little before seven, and Harley was turning off the lights in the storefront windows.
“The engagement party, of course. Michael and Savannah’s. Don’t tell me you forgot.”
In truth, she had forgotten. She was so preoccupied with Patrick’s death and the subsequent events that the party had utterly slipped her mind. Luckily, she had prepared for the occasion the week before, setting aside designated boxes of liquor marked Sutcliffe Engagement on a shelf in the storage room.
“So they’re still having it then?” she asked. “I thought they might’ve canceled because of Patrick.”
“Canceled? Oh no. I got a call from Pearl Johnson this morning, confirmin’. And we can’t miss it, Harley. Michael’s payin’ us too much money to cater this thing.”
“Just let me get my things.”
“Oh, and here’s your uniform.” Tina handed Harley one of the black-and-white tuxedo-style uniforms they used when catering events together. “I know how you love to wear it.”
“I look like a blackjack dealer at a casino.”
“More like Steve Urkel at the prom.” Tina laughed. “Besides, it’s your own fault. You should’ve picked the skirt combo like I did. It’s way cuter.”
“I thought the pants were more practical.”
“You would.”
After Harley closed the store, she and Tina loaded the food and alcohol in the truck bed and made the short pilgrimage to Briarwood and the Sutcliffe’s ancestral home, known throughout the region as Briarcliffe. And if Briarwood was the showplace of this small southern town, then Briarcliffe was its crowning glory.
As Harley’s truck climbed the hill, Briarcliffe’s wrought iron gate rose through a vine of artfully groomed wisteria, the sweetness of summer’s white blossom replaced by autumn’s aroma of woodsmoke rising from the mansion’s chimney.
Harley brought the truck to a rattling stop, her eyes squinting against the glare of the truck’s headlights.
“What a beauty,” Tina said in the passenger seat. “And to think Savanah gets all this.”
Briarcliffe was the town’s oldest property and its most significant, a residence befitting a family of timber barons who had later tripled their wealth in real estate, constructing luxury chalets and hotels in the Smokies. The three-story Georgian home, constructed of butter-yellow limestone hand-hewn from quarries fifty miles north, had rows of large, white-paned windows on each of its three floors, and a wide veranda around the home’s perimeter, its columns tangled with green and red tresses of tumbling ivy.
Harley smiled, gazing out the window, remembering the stories her grandfather had told about Briarcliffe from his childhood. It had been a time of innocence then, he said, those days before one tragedy after another struck the Sutcliffe family.
People packed bathing suits and swam in the creek that traversed the property’s backyard, while others rowed along the peaceful, shimmering currents, pausing in a silent glide of canopying chestnut trees, dapples of sunshine falling warm on their cheeks. It was a romantic time, he said, those sleepy summer days, and he remembered kissing the girl who would later become his wife, Harley’s grandmother. The two had stood awkwardly behind the boathouse, her lips sticky and tart with traces of lemonade, her skin caressed with the perspiration of the day. She had pulled away from him, gently, her eyes smiling, and he had placed his hand to her cheek, knowing he loved her, would always love her.
Then at nightfall, the glass solarium came to life, illuminating the back lawn with hundreds of bulbs of phosphorescence, transforming the lawn into a veritable fairyland, a fantastic site treated with greater reverence than the most impressive of July fourth fireworks. It was a brief taste of the finer life, something the Sutcliffes had not had to share with the town, but they did, a taste that remained on her grandfather’s palette long after those summer parties ended.
At their approach, the front gate opened, and Harley’s truck climbed the long drive before parking behind the house near the servants’ entrance.
Pearl Johnson met them outside. She wore a tailored beige jacket and matching wool skirt with low heels, her blond hair coiffed so that it grazed her jawline. “Harley,” she said, waving from the kitchen door. “Tina. You’re right on time. They’ve just finished setting up the serving platters and stemware in the ballroom.”
Harley stepped from the driver’s side and, after straightening her tuxedo jacket, waved at Pearl.
“You still haven’t found your contacts?” Pearl asked, looking at Harley’s glasses with concern.
“Not yet, unfortunately. I need to replace them, but I haven’t had any time the last couple of days.”
“Understandable.” Pearl scurried over to the truck bed. “Here, why don’t you let me help you carry these things in?”
Tina handed Pearl a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “You sure you wanna help out? I mean, we don’t want you messin’ up your nice outfit there.”
“It’s all part of being a party planner, Tina, even if I am only a volunteer. And, I like to help out Michael any way I can.”
“Where are they anyway?” Tina asked as they walked toward the house. “Savannah and Michael. Inside somewhere?”
“Well, Michael’s still upstairs getting ready, and I don’t know where Savannah’s gotten off to. It seems like she’s always sneaking off somewhere these days.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Just between the three of us, I don’t know if this engagement is really the best idea.”
“Why’s that?” Tina asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Pearl said, shaking her head. “Michael just seems so infatuated with her. So blindly infatuated. He can’t see any of her faults. Only her beauty. Her indifference to him, her apathy, her coldness, he seems to overlook. If you ask me, Savannah’s just going through the motions with him, doing what’s expected of her. It’s not fair to Michael.”
“Have you talked to them about it?” Harley asked.
“To Savannah, no. Definitely not. And I don’t intend to. I did, however, voice my concerns to Michael. After all, I’ve known him since he was a baby. As you know, Michael’s father chose us as his legal guardians before he died. And that’s part of the reason I’m worried about him. He’s vulnerable. Born into all this wealth and privilege but with no real parents to guide him on the right decisions to make. I’m not sure Arthur and I did right by him, sending him away to be educated at those schools in Europe. Maybe we should’ve kept him here, close to us. He has freedom and money now and does whatever he wants—never thinks about any of the consequences. And Savannah Swanson’s bewitched him, I can tell you that. Body and soul.”
“Just tell him to get a prenup,” Tina said as they entered the kitchen. “That’s what a lot of the rich people do.”
“Oh, if it were only so easy, Tina,” Pearl said.
They set the trays of food on the enormous kitchen island and began unwrapping them. “These will go on the buffet tables in the ballroom,” Pearl said. “And Harley, your things will go on the bar. Here, I’ll show you.”
Following behind Pearl, they traveled down a long marble-tiled hallway, the walls covered in a collage of tapestries and oil portraits whose eyes followed them as they passed.
“Creepy,” Tina whispered to Harley.
“Generations and generations of Sutcliffes,” Pearl said, examining the long rows of paintings as she walked. “Many of whom lived here or visited at one time or another.”
“They’re all blond,” Tina said. “Not that I’ve got anything against blonds or anything.” She tossed a peroxide curl over her shoulder. Harley and Pearl were too polite to mention hers wasn’t natural.
Pearl laughed. “Yes, they’re known for it. The Sutcliffes. Glorious crowns of golden hair.”
Near the end of the hallway, Harley paused at one of the portraits, finding herself arrested by the young man’s beauty, the depth of expression in his blue eyes. There was something familiar about him too, something she could not place. “Who’s this?”
Pearl stopped and turned to the portrait with interest. “That was James Sutcliffe. Michael’s father.” Her pleasant expression wilted to sadness. “He died quite young. And tragically. It happened during one of the summer parties they used to host here years ago. Your grandfather probably told you about them, Harley. Anyway, James was terribly depressed after his wife died. Arthur and I tried to talk him out of hosting the party that year, but he insisted, saying it was a Sutcliffe family tradition, that he owed it to the town. He’d been drinking heavily that night, was walking along the cliff out back when he fell. His body—it was found the next morning, his silk suit tangled in a briar thicket.”
“When was this?” Tina asked.
“Oh, a very long time ago—more than thirty years—before you all were born. Michael was just a baby at the time. I still remember how shocked we all were, how shocked the whole town was. ‘A tragic accident,’ the headlines had read, and ‘How will we survive without our favorite son?’”
Harley imagined James Sutcliffe, handsome and young and lifeless, his fine silken suit tangled in thorns, his beautiful face bloodied and scarred from numerous briar pricks. She flinched and drew her hand to her face. “It is tragic,” she said.
Pearl nodded in agreement. “The Sutcliffes have been tested by one trial after another. What more could possibly happen?”
The darkness of the foyer and the melancholy spell of James Sutcliffe’s death lifted as they entered the ballroom, the crystal chandeliers illuminating gold walls accented by ivory trim and wainscoting.