The one thing they did have in common? Neither of them could stand to be immobile, unoccupied, or unproductive for even a second. They had been working together at BFE now for almost five years—no, longer. Seven?
Oh, God, it was close to ten now.
And Lizzie couldn’t fathom life without the woman—even though sometimes she wished Greta could be a half-full, instead of half-empty, kinda gal.
“Ich sage Ihnen, wir haben Schwierigkeiten.”
“Did you just say we’re in trouble again?”
“Kann sein.”
Lizzie rolled her eyes but fell into the adrenal trap, glancing over the assembly line they’d set up: Down the sixty-foot-long center of the greenhouse, a double row of folding tables had been lined up, and on them were seventy-five sterling-silver bouquet bowls the size of ice buckets.
The gleam was so bright, Lizzie wished she hadn’t left her sunglasses in her car.
And she also wished she didn’t have to deal with all this in addition to the knowledge that Lane Baldwine was probably landing at the airport at this very instant.
Like she needed that pressure as well?
As her head began to pound, she tried to focus on what she could control. Unfortunately, that only left her wondering how she and Greta were going to manage to fill those bowls with the fifty thousand dollars of flowers that had been delivered—but that still needed to be unpacked, inspected, cleaned, cut and arranged properly.
Then again, this was the crunch that always happened forty-eight hours before The Derby Brunch.
Or TDB, as it was called around the estate.
Because, yup, working at Easterly was like being in the Army: Everything was shortened, except for the work days.
And yes, even with that ambulance this morning, the event was still going on. Like a train, the momentum stopped for no one and nothing in its path. In fact, she and Greta had often said that if nuclear war happened, the only things left after the mushroom cloud dissipated would be cockroaches, Twinkies … and TDB.
Jokes aside, the brunch was so long-standing and exclusive, it was its own proper name, and slots on the guest list were guarded and passed down to the next generation as heirlooms. A gathering of nearly seven hundred of the city’s and the nation’s wealthiest people and political elite, the crowd mingled and milled around Easterly’s gardens, drinking mint juleps and mimosas for only two hours before departing for Steeplehill Downs for thoroughbred racing’s biggest day and the first leg of the Triple Crown. The rules of the brunch were short and sweet: Ladies had to wear hats, no photographs or photographers were allowed, and it didn’t matter whether you were in a Phantom Drophead or a corporate limousine—all cars were parked in the meadow at the bottom of the hill and all people filed into vans that ran them up to the front door of the estate.
Well, almost all people. The only folks who didn’t have to take the shuttle? Governors, any of the Presidents if they came—and the head coach of the University of Charlemont’s men’s basketball team.
In Kentucky, you were either U of C red or Kentucky University blue, and basketball mattered whether you were rich or poor.
The Bradfords were U of C Eagles fans. And it was almost Shakespearean that their rivals in the bourbon business, the Suttons, were all about the KU Tigers.
“I can hear you muttering,” Lizzie said. “Think positive. We got this.”
“Wir müssen alle Pfingstrosen zahlen,” Greta announced as she popped the top on another carton. “Last year, they short-changed us—”
One half of the double doors that opened into the house swung wide, and Mr. Newark Harris, the butler, came in like a cold draft. At five feet six inches, he appeared much taller in his black suit and tie—then again, maybe the illusion was because of his perma-raised eyebrows, a function of him being on the verge of uttering “you stupid American” after everything he said. A total throwback to the centuries-old tradition of the proper English servant, he’d not only been born and trained in London, but he had served as a footman for Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and then as a butler for Prince Edward, Earl of Wessex, at Bagshot Park. The House of Windsor pedigree had been the linchpin of his hiring the year before.
Certainly hadn’t been his personality.
“Mrs. Baldwine is out at the pool house.” He addressed only Lizzie. Greta, as a German national who still rocked that Z-centric accent, was persona non grata to him. “Please take a bouquet out to her. Thank you.”
And poof!, he was back out the door, closing things up silently.
Lizzie closed her eyes. There were two Mrs. Baldwines on the estate, but one only of them was likely to be out of her bedroom and down in the sunshine by the pool.
One-two punch today, Lizzie thought. Not only was she going to have to see her ex-lover, she was now going to have to wait on his wife.
Fantastic.
“Ich hoffe, dass dem Idiot ein Klavier auf den Kopf fallt.”
“Did you just say you hope a piano falls on his head?”
“And you maintain you don’t know German.”
“Ten years with you and I’m getting there.”
Lizzie glanced around to see what she could use of the massive flower delivery. After the boxes were unpacked, the leaves needed to be stripped off the stalks and the blooms had to be fluffed one by one to encourage petal spread and allow for a check of quality. She and Greta hadn’t gotten anywhere close to that stage yet, but what Mrs. Baldwine wanted, she got.
On so many levels.