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“Now,” Gwyn says, once they are both inside, “it’s looking like we may be running into a little rain, but we’ll just deal with that if it happens. We already have someone who will be providing all of the alcohol, loads of champagne and caviar. A complete vodka bar. I’ll have him outfit a proper waitstaff for you, so your only responsibility will be to prepare the food and have one or two staff members with you to help in the kitchen.” She pauses. “You know all of this. We went over it, didn’t we? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Eve looks down, away. She seems young, beneath her skin, young and scared, standing before Gwyn. It makes Gwyn feel bad for her, for a second, maternal almost. This is a young woman who is in over her head. Who has daddy issues or insecurity issues, and finds a man who promises her things. So what if that man is married? So what if he is currently breaking his most important promise to someone else?
“Ms. Lancaster . . .”
“Gwyn. Please. Considering everything.”
“What’s everything?”
She puts the tray on the counter. “You know,” she says. “How closely we are going to be working together today.”
“Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about.”
Gwyn turns away from the counter, and tries to look casual, pushing her hair behind her ears. “Okay.”
“I am really sorry, but it turns out that I won’t be able to cater the party tonight. I know this is unprofessional, so last minute, but something came up. A personal issue.”
“What kind?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Except you’re going to have to. You’re going to have to do a little better than that, Eve. I have a hundred and seventy people showing up here in a few hours.”
“I thought you said two hundred.”
Gwyn crosses her arms over her chest. “I like to overorder.”
Eve ignores her, motioning toward the tray. “I’ve already done most of the preparation, so the food belongs to you. And my friend Lola Cunningham, over at Bobby Van’s, says she will be glad to work with what I have and take over the catering duties.”
Eve hangs her head, and Gwyn can see her searching for the words—but she isn’t sure which ones.
“Eve, if you are worried that this is out of your league, if that is what this is about, please don’t be. I am well aware of your limitations, or your inexperience with a party this size, but you have come to me highly recommended.”
“By who?”
“My husband.”
Eve is silent, clearly confused, wondering what Gwyn knows, which makes Gwyn wonder how Eve figured out who she was. “Why did you tell me that the party was here, at the Buckleys’?” George asks.
“What are you talking about? I told you we were prepping over here.”
“No, when we spoke on the phone, what you told me was that this was where the party was.”
“You must be remembering incorrectly.”
“I’m not.”
Gwyn meets Eve’s angry eyes. “Well, what’s the difference anyway, Eve? Here or there. Here is easier in terms of space to organize. And what does this have to do with why you are canceling?”
“I guess it doesn’t.”
Gwyn puts the tray on the table, turns to face her. “Right, it doesn’t. So let’s get started on the menu order. Obviously, you’ll be rotating among the different appetizers, but I was hoping we could start crabcake heavy. I think those will go off well. Everyone out here is already dreading the end of seafood season—”
“Gwyn, let me be clear.” She clears her throat. “I feel uncomfortable catering this party tonight.”
Gwyn clears her throat, back, almost in mimicry, and moves closer to her. “So, let me be clear, you feel comfortable sleeping with my husband and helping him walk out on a thirty-five-year marriage, but you can’t cater my party?”
Eve is silent, and Gwyn can see it—Eve’s worst fears getting confirmed. This isn’t just a bizarre coincidence, the universe delivering a karmic blow: Gwyn knows. Or, at least, Gwyn knows enough of everything that this isn’t going to end well.
