Chapter 1 - The Cake
The birthday cake collapsed under Sloan Mercer’s palm before anyone on the Caldwell patio understood what she was doing.
Yellow frosting burst between her fingers. One tier slid sideways, dragging candles and sugar flowers with it, then dropped onto the silver cake stand with a wet thud. A few guests gasped. Someone near the pool stopped laughing in the middle of a sentence.
Sloan lifted her champagne glass with her clean hand and smiled.
“Oops.”
Eleanor Caldwell stood six feet away in a deep-purple blazer, orange silk blouse, and pearl earrings. It was her seventieth birthday. The cake had been made from the handwritten recipe her late husband, Thomas, had used every year since their first anniversary.
Eleanor did not raise her voice.
She looked at the ruined cake. Then at Sloan.
“You think that’s funny?”
Sloan gave a small shrug. “It’s cake, Eleanor. We can order another one.”
That was when Eleanor saw the hot-pink handbag on the lounge table beside the pool.
She crossed the patio slowly. The guests moved out of her way without being asked. Sloan’s smile faded when Eleanor picked up the structured leather bag by its gold handles.
“Eleanor,” her son Harrison warned.
His mother kept walking.
The rectangular fire pit glowed between two white sofas. Eleanor lowered the bag until the bottom touched flame.
Sloan’s champagne glass shook.
“Wait! That’s my bag!”
Eleanor let go.
The leather dropped into the fire. Flames curled around one corner.
Eleanor turned her head.
“Oops.”
For one stunned second, the whole party went silent.
Then Sloan screamed.
Not because of the price.
Not because the bag was a limited edition.
She lunged toward the fire so fast that Harrison caught her around the waist.
“My bag! Get it out! Get it out now!”
A waiter grabbed the long fire tongs. Eleanor watched Sloan’s face and felt something colder than anger settle inside her.
Because Sloan was no longer looking at the burning leather.
She was staring at the small side pocket.
May you like
And whispering one sentence over and over.
“The envelope. The envelope. The envelope.”
