“She says it’s so we can review my photography proposal.”

“That can be done via email and text, dear. I would say you’ve made an impression on Mrs. Grant.”

“Maybe.” The scratch of little feet scurrying behind the walls drew her back to the moment. “I’ll help you here when I have free time.”

“When do you have free time?”

“It rears its ugly head every now and then. Like you said, hard work is easy.”

Sierra hooked her arm into Libby’s. “Well, aren’t we two codependent castoffs looking for a new life?”

Libby laughed. “Put that way, we sound dire.”

“Maybe we are.”

“I don’t want to see us that way.”

The shadow in Sierra’s gaze brightened. “Then we’ll deny it until the end.”

 

Libby spent the afternoon working on the shoot schedule for the coming weekend wedding and trading texts with Joan, the bride. This rehearsal dinner and wedding were going to be held in Richmond’s historic Main Street Station. Because it was still an active train station, her lists included not only the names of the wedding party and guests but also the train schedules (6:35 p.m. and 8:30 p.m.). She double-checked her room reservation in town and triple-checked that the second shooter she had hired was on target. Immediately she rattled off another worst-case list. Hurricane season. An influx of train passengers wandering into my shots. Drunken guests.

She also wrote up a proposal for Elaine and printed it out on white linen paper and tucked it in a glossy pocket folder embossed with her logo. The time slipped by quickly, and she was proud to report, should anyone care, that she had checked Jeremy’s and Monica’s Instagram pages only twice. To her disappointment and relief, there were no new pictures of the baby bump or the upcoming wedding.

At four o’clock, she showered and washed and actually blow-dried her hair, something she rarely did on a weekday. She also took time to apply a little makeup and found clean jeans and a white eyelet top that was wrinkle-free. She grabbed a bottle of chardonnay from the wine rack, which was her sole souvenir from the house she had shared with Jeremy.

Now familiar with the twenty-minute drive to Woodmont, she found herself enjoying the rolling countryside more each time. At first she had been frustrated by the area’s sparseness, but it had started to grow on her. She pulled into the long driveway, and as the dirt kicked up around her tires, her gaze was drawn to the east field, where two black horses grazed.

Proposal and wine bottle in hand, she parked in the front and walked up to the door. Taped to the door was a precise handwritten note. Libby, go around to the side family entrance.

Libby tugged the note off the door and walked around the house, past the boxwood hedges and blooming beds of pansies and irises.

This entrance, recently outfitted with a new door, had no overhang. Before, she had not paid much attention to it. She climbed the newly laid wooden steps and knocked. Seconds later, hard footsteps crossed the kitchen, and the door snapped open.

The woman standing there was heavyset. White hair was cut short and brushed back off her round face, and she appeared to be in her seventies. She wore a loose-fitting navy-blue dress and black sensible sandals.

“Mrs. Reese.” As the woman stared at her, Libby gripped the note and the bottle of wine. “I’m Libby. Elaine invited me to dinner. I was the photographer at Ginger’s wedding.”

“What a soggy wedding that was. I don’t think I’ll ever get the floors cleaned right again. And call me Margaret. No one calls me Mrs. Reese. Elaine said you were coming. Come on inside.”

“Thank you. Am I early?”

“No. Others are always running late.”

“What did you think of the pictures I took at Ginger and Cameron’s wedding?”

Margaret’s face softened. “Elaine showed me how to open the link, and we had a grand time looking at them. They’re real pretty. Even in the rain.”

“There’s no planning the best moments.”

“Ginger is a brilliant doctor but would never make a good meteorologist,” she said with a laugh.

“She was lucky to get married in such a pretty place.”

“Yes, she certainly was.”

Libby held up the bottle. “I have wine.”

“Isn’t that sweet of you. And what’s the folder?”

“A proposal for Elaine.”

“I’ll take it and see she gets it.”

Libby hesitated, always liking to deliver her proposals directly. She handed the folder off to Margaret and followed the woman into a fully renovated kitchen that any chef would have envied. The countertops were white marble, the upper and lower cabinets a deep blue, and the large appliances stainless steel.

When she and her mother had toured the house, they had been escorted through the kitchen. Before the renovation, the countertops had been fashioned from wood, the large farmhouse sink had been white porcelain, and the stove, considered cutting edge at the time, had been white enamel with chrome trim, four burners, and two ovens.

“I remember the setup of the old kitchen. Did you cook on that white stove?”

“I learned to cook on it, and it served me well until Mrs. Carter replaced it.”

The room smelled of freshly baked bread, hints of cookies, and the savory scent of a roasting chicken. “Smells delicious.”

“I miss that old stove.” Margaret laid the proposal on the desk tucked in a nook and returned to the stove. Staring at the buttons, she said, “This kitchen has only been in place a week, and I still don’t know my way around it. The old kitchen had its quirks, but so do I. We were a team. But this new stove and that refrigerator are strangers to me. Colton turned on the oven for me, but I can’t figure out how to operate the burners.”

Libby had been in enough professional catering kitchens in the last few years. She pressed the black knob and twisted. A flame appeared. “There you go.”

Margaret drew in a deep breath, nodding. “Push and twist. I should have known.”

“Would you like me to chill the wine?”

“Swap it for the other chardonnay in the refrigerator. And if you can find the wine opener, that would be great. I have no idea.”

“When I moved into Dad’s house in January, it took me weeks to figure out what was where.”

Margaret opened a box of fresh elbow macaroni. “Elaine said it was a nice funeral.”

“I didn’t realize she’d gone. The church was so full I didn’t get the chance to see everyone.”

Libby swapped her bottle for the cold one in the refrigerator and opened and closed three or four drawers before she found one jammed with a collection of odd utensils. She wasn’t sure how they’d gone from wine to funerals.

Minutes later the bottle was open and sitting next to two glasses from the cabinet. “Can I pour you a glass?” Libby offered.

“I don’t drink as a general rule. But you go on.”

Libby poured a glass. “Have you worked at Woodmont long, Margaret?”

“Came here to work a few years before Miss Elaine was born.”

“You must have been a child.”

“Eighteen years old.”

“And you’ve been here this entire time.”