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Chapter One
In high school, I was voted most likely to work in a bakery.
It wasn’t a compliment.
The bakery comment was someone’s idea of a “harmless joke,” except it wasn’t harmless because it hurt. I was a little heavier back then. That’s when I thought the fifth food group was cookies. (It should be.) Still. That doesn’t make it right.
The jerks.
What the caption below my senior picture should have said was “Most likely to throw an epic party.” Because I can. It’s what I do. I’m the owner of Caley Party and Event Planning. Caley means a party with music, dancing, and storytelling in my grandfather’s native tongue, Irish. Okay, Gaelic is the language, but I simplified the spelling because nobody I know would be able to pronounce cèilidh. Am I right?
No matter what the idiots in high school said, I’m good at what I do. No, I’m the best. As for the bakery comment, I’ve lost weight since then. Not a lot, but enough that I feel good in my own skin. Sure, I’m curvy, but I like my body. My grandmother always told me, “Men like something to hold onto, Lucy-loo-loo.” (That’s what she always called me.) My grandma told it like it was, so I believed her theory about men. So far, though, that hasn’t panned out. Men generally avoid curves like mine, but I’ll hold out hope that I’ll meet someone I like enough to test that hypothesis. And no, I’m not a twenty-six-year-old virgin. I’m twenty-six, yes. Virgin? No.
“Do you want me to get more canapés?”
I quickly turn my head toward the source of the voice. It’s my assistant and best friend, Molly. “Are we out already?”
“Yeah. These richie-rich people eat like pigs.”
I snicker even though I shouldn’t. These rich people pay the bills. “Yes, please.” As she turns to leave, I reach out and touch her shoulder. “And ask Ann to check on the bar. These–” I lean in and whisper, “Richie-rich people love their top-shelf liquor.”
“Sure thing, Lucy.”
Molly trots away, and I turn to scan the room. The job tonight is at an art gallery. An opening reception for some new artist or something. The planning for this was easy compared to some of the larger events I’ve planned like Charter wedding last month. It wasn’t easy to pull off the wedding of the century, let me tell you. I give myself an inner eye roll whenever I think about that bride. No. Not just the bride. The entire family was a pain in my backside, but let me tell you, that wedding was ah-mazing when we were done. The ceremony was held in a large cathedral here in the city, and the reception was at the family estate in Winnetka, a suburb just north of the city. Molly and I put months of planning into that day, but it was worth it in the end. It went so well, I landed a few more jobs, which is what this is all about. Word of mouth is the best advertising.
As I said, this event is simple compared to that. I’ve only got a small crew here tonight. They’re the ones who keep things running. My job is to anticipate the needs of my clients before they ask. Oh, and put fires out before they ignite.
While we were setting up today, I took a moment to look at the paintings on the wall, and I thought they were fine. I mean, they were colorful and sort of happy looking, covered in colorful shapes and lines which I liked. I certainly wouldn’t want to get into a conversation about any of them, though. I know zilch about art.
“Excuse me. Do you work here?”
Technically, no, I don’t work here, but this person doesn’t need to know that. I swivel around and come face to neck with the tallest woman I’ve ever seen. My grandmother would’ve called her statuesque. My grandma had the best vocabulary. She could describe things in the most interesting ways. Take this woman’s necklace. It’s right at my eye level since I’d guess I’m about eight inches shorter than this lady. My grandma would call it a large vintage heart-shaped locket encrusted with rubies. Small diamonds form the letter L on the front and—
My mouth is suddenly dry. As dry as the dang Sahara. “Oh—” Crap, what did she ask me? I don’t wait for her to repeat her question; instead, I ask, “What a b-beautiful necklace. Wh-where did you get it?”
The woman, who looks to be in her early seventies, glances down at the locket. She touches it with her left hand and shrugs. “Oh, who knows? My late husband picked it up for me somewhere. My name is Lydia.” She chuckles, holding it out for me and pointing to the letter L on the front. “He was a simple man. He saw that L and bought it.”
L is for Lydia, but it’s also for—Locket.
I can’t take my eyes off it. Because I’ve seen it before. Not in person, no. In photos and in one very detailed drawing created by my grandmother. Why, you might ask? Because that locket. The one this tall lady is wearing, is not hers. It was stolen from my grandparents many years ago.
“Do you—” I clear my throat. “Do you happen to know where he bought it?”
“No idea.” I can tell by the fact she keeps looking elsewhere that she’s losing interest in our conversation. Too bad. It was getting interesting. “Did you hear me? I asked if you worked here.”
“I’m with the event company.” I’m still staring at the necklace. “I’ve, ah, seen one like that before.” I’m now pointing at the golden heart. “Does yours open—?” I was about to say “four ways” so it ends up looking like a four-leaf clover, because not everyone knows how to open it like that. According to my grandma, there’s a secret button that lets you open it the rest of the way. But she doesn’t let me finish asking.
“Well, whoever you are, could you please turn up the air-conditioning? This heat is not good for the paintings.”
The paintings? “Sure. No problem.”
Without another word, the woman who is currently wearing my inheritance, my legacy, my destiny, walks away.
Chapter Two
“What’s up with you, Luce?”
Molly’s standing next to me, holding an empty tray, probably the one that had the canapés. “You seem a bit distracted.”
