One Autumn Night

Chapter Three

Declan arrived to his family home and found himself bracing, yet again, for what he could only imagine would be an austere showing of disdain, dismissal, and general repugnance.

He'd told his mother he'd help, and he had. He'd driven in from New York a day early, he'd found a replacement caterer, and now he'd need whatever divine guidance was out there as he explained that her noble guests would be dining on pub grub.

Every extravagant crevice of the sprawling estate was well under way with preparations for the party. Staff members balanced on ladders, hanging twinkle lights in the trees throughout the terraced courtyards, maids performed last minute dustings of every intricately carved motif, gardeners trimmed hedges and mowed the rolling velvet expanse of lawn.

"Declan." His father, dressed in white pants and a navy polo shirt stepped out of the house. "Join me for a round of golf this morning? Brant Rothberry is apparently stuck in China and can't make our tee time. Told him to move his manufacturing plant to the U.S., but did he listen? Serves him right," Robert Fitzgerald smiled, always finding the world of big business a high-stakes playground.

"Escaping the madness of party preparations, huh?" Declan asked, appreciating the routines of his family.

"And I'm offering you a safety zone. You should join me."

"I can't today, but the offer is a tempting one. Next time."

"Next time it is."

"Stay dry out there. Rain in the forecast."

"Weather doesn't bother me. The wet simply keeps everyone else off the golf course. See you tonight, son."

Declan watched his content father slide his hands in his pockets and walk toward his vintage Corvette the staff had brought out of the garage. Robert Fitzgerald loved the life he'd built for himself, there was no doubt about that.

Confident that he was in progress on doing the same, building the life he desired, Declan made his way through the activity that had been a constant part of his upbringing for some function or another. Finally finding his mother standing in her office with a team of assistants that were each tidily groomed and adequately glazed over from the stress of dealing the family matriarch, he was glad for the audience. Maybe she'd put that stiff upper lip in place and rein in her heavy-handed disapproval.

"Declan, good, just in time. Please tell me you've found a new caterer," Francine Fitzgerald, clad in a plum-colored silk suit, pleaded to her son.

"I did."

Francine's slimly featured face smirked into a grin of satisfaction. "I knew you would. My son, the lawyer."

"How about a glass of champagne, mother? A token pre-toast to hosting yet another Autumn Harvest party."

Her habitually narrowed blue eyes pierced. "There's no such thing as a pre-toast. And more importantly, why do you want me to drink before noon?"

"Because I need you to keep in mind that no other caterers were available on day-of notice."

"Whom did you hire, Declan?"

"The Plumber's Pub."

Her chin set and she glared. "Absolutely not."

"All right," he told her with a casual shrug as he sat in the nearest chair, having decided his approach early on. "We can cancel, no problem. But then you'll be stuck without food for a hundred and fifty guests."

Francine marched around the large mahogany desk and sat in her hand-carved wooden throne. "You're talking to that girl again?"

"By 'that girl,' I assume you mean Abigail, mother."

"That girl is not catering this party. Nor is she welcome on this property, do you hear me?"

Declan faced the assistants that cowered beside the desk. "Could you ladies give us a few moments? Thank you."

They looked to Francine and took her silence as approval to leave—her disapproval would've been vocalized.

"What is this issue you have with Abigail?"

"No issue," she stated loftily. "I just don't want that grimy food anywhere near this property come time for the party. Or ever, for that matter."

"You've never liked her. Why?"

"You're sorely incorrect if you think I give any space in my head to lengthy thoughts of that girl. I simply don't consider her at all. I have guests coming over and there are certain expectations about the cuisine, and the Plumber's Pub does not meet those expectations. End of story."

Examining the regal figure that was his mother, he continued to wonder what drove her disdain for Abigail. The typical doses of dissatisfaction weren't nearly as lasting as they had been for his high school girlfriend. And regardless of what his mother said, that disdain remained in rutted grooves that reached for miles. But he also knew that her perception of life was not always explainable. "Your decision. I'll call and cancel now." He pushed up from the leather chair to leave.

"Wait." She huffed out a breath. "Fine. We need a caterer and you found one. But she is not a guest, you remember that. She's hired help. And as such—"

"Don't finish that sentence, mother," he warned. "She'll be here at four to set up. Serving buffet style. And before you object, remember she's saving us tonight. Oh, and she'll have access to the kitchen in the house for final prep and whatnot."

He grabbed a mint from the baccarat crystal bowl on the corner of the desk, fiddled with the wrapper then popped the candy into his mouth, smiled, and left his mother with her tongue clenched firmly between her teeth.

As he strode off, the assistants behind him flittered back into his mother's office and closed the door.

Pleased he'd done his duty, he made his way toward the kitchen through the swinging door that separated the formal dining room from the large staff-run kitchen.

Why was he bothering to question his mother's distaste for Abigail anyway? He couldn't begin to unravel the mysterious mind of his mother any more than he could figure out why Abigail had reacted to seeing him after, what? Eight years? By grittily slamming the door in his face.

Thank God for fast reflexes.

Despite that, maybe a little because of that, he admired Abigail. She'd built a life with that grit and he was proud of her.

A bright spot in his morning, he thought of her wearing nothing but a T-shirt, looking feverishly alive, her silky hair wild around her, her honeyed eyes sliced thin like a cat's when he'd told her why he was there.

And while he wasn't entirely puzzled by his mother's reaction, he was, now that he was thinking about it, puzzled by Abigail's response to him. Just why was the woman mad at him? She was the one who'd stopped taking his calls, the one who'd pulled an Irish exit out of their relationship after graduation. He'd experienced enough of life that the initial callus had lifted and what remained was a layer of curiosity. Curiosity and intrigue, he thought, now that'd he'd seen her—with that same set of curves, killer mouth, and expressive eyes.

Well, he figured, there was no time like the present to find out what had happened. Maybe he'd head over to the pub later, lend a hand with the food.

Yeah, he decided as he helped himself to coffee before one of the many staff members could offer to do it for him. He'd mosey over, roll up his sleeves, and get to know the woman he hadn't stopped loving since high school.