Lizzie lowered her voice. “Do you want me to take care of things out here?”
“I’m afraid they’re not going to let this be.”
“I’ll make sure it’s done right.”
The butler cleared his throat. And then, God love him, he gave her a bit of a bow. “It would be most appreciated. Thank you—I shan’t be long.”
She nodded and watched him go. Then she got back to work.
Jerking the table off the deck, she strode across the now-cavernous interior and proceeded out into the open air where a sprinkling of that rain dusted her head and shoulders. The staging tent was way off by the opposite side of the house, and Greta’s German accent emanated from it as twin streams of servers, one filing in with party debris, the other emerging with empty hands, moved with speed.
Lizzie waited along with the rest of them, inching her way closer and closer to the drop-off.
The larger of the two tents would be taken down in about twenty minutes—and the sweep-up crew was already working the floor, picking up crumpled napkins, errant forks, glasses.
Rich people were no different from any other herd of animals, capable of leaving a trail of detritus behind them after they abandoned a feeding station.
“Last table,” she said as she once again went under cover.
“Good.” Greta pointed to a stack. “It goes there, ja?”
“Yup.” Lizzie jerked the weight up to waist level and slid the length on top of the pile. “Mr. Harris has to take care of some business, so I’ll be manning clean up.”
“We have all in order.” Greta motioned for two young men with six crates of glasses apiece to the other corner. “Over there. Make sure under cover, ja?”
“I’m going to check in with the kitchen.”
“We’ll be finished out here in an hour.”
“Right on schedule.”
“Always.”
And Greta was right. At six o’clock on the dot, they were finished, the big tent down, the house and gardens cleared out of anything rented, the backyard reset sure as if it had had its Ctrl+Alt+Del hit. As usual, the effort had been tremendous: As the staff filed off, most of them were heading downtown to drink off the aches, pains, and OMGs of the day, but not Lizzie—or her partner. Home. They were both going home—where she would wait for Lane, and Greta would get treated to a meal cooked by her husband.
As the two of them walked down to the staff parking area together, they didn’t say a word, and at their cars, they shared a quick hug.
“Another in the can,” Lizzie said as they pulled apart.
“Now we get ready for the Little V.E. birthday party.”
Or Gin’s wedding reception, Lizzie thought.
At least it wasn’t going to be Lane’s wedding anniversary.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she said.
“Sunday? No.” Greta laughed. “Not a soul will be stirring, not a martini nor a mouse.”
“Right, right, right. Sorry, my brain is fried. See you Monday.”
“You all right to drive home?”
“Yup.”
After a wave, Lizzie got in her Yaris and then joined the lineup of cars and trucks proceeding out the staff lane.
As she took a left on River Road, what had started as sprinkles turned into an actual rain, and the deluge made her think of the race—shoot, she’d missed it. Reaching for the radio, she turned the thing on and futzed with the dial to find the local station. By the time she found the recap, she was out of spaghetti junction and heading over the Ohio.
But she didn’t follow the reporting and not just because she didn’t follow the sport.
Frowning, she leaned into her steering wheel. “Dear God …”
Up ahead, the horizon was filled with tremendous black clouds, the rolling thunderheads looming high in the sky. Worse? There was a green tinge to it all—and even to her untrained, naked eye, the stuff appeared to be rotating.
She checked over her shoulder. Behind her, there was nothing much going on weather-wise. There was even a stretch of blue sky.
Shoving her hand into her purse, she took out her phone and dialed Easterly. When that clipped English voice answered, she said, “Weather’s coming. You’re going to need—”
“Miss King?” the butler said.
“Look, you need to batten down the pool area and the pots—”
“But there is no ‘weather,’ as you called it, due. In fact, the weathermen have made it clear that a spot of rain is all we shall have this evening.”
As a flash of lightning licked its way across the underside of that cloud front, she thought, well, at least she’d gotten along with the man for almost an hour. “Screw the Weather Channel. I’m telling you what I’m looking at right now—there is a storm bigger than downtown Charlemont heading across the river, and Easterly’s hill is the first thing it’s going to run into.”
Crap, had she remembered to shut her windows at her farm?
“I was unaware of your skills as a meteorologist,” Mr. Harris said dryly.
You are a dick, sir. “Fine, but then you can explain the following after it goes through: One, why the awning by the pool blew off. Two, why the four porch pots on the west side of the terrace have fallen over and need to be replanted. Three, where the lawn furniture ended up—because unless you make sure it’s in the pool house, it’s going to drag through the flower beds. Which brings me to number four—namely when the ivy, tea roses, and hydrangea will be fixed. Oh, and then you can follow all that up with writing the family a seven-thousand-dollar check to cover the new plant material that will be required.”