Coached to Death Page 4

  At the time, I’d thought I’d come out much the winner, because Nigel had sold me the property for an amount that was significantly less than what he could’ve gotten on the open market, and my ego had allowed me to believe that it was because he was a sweet elderly man who’d also been sweet on me, but after meeting Heather, I’d had to reevaluate that notion, and I’d often wondered if Nigel and Heather had had a contentious relationship too. Nigel had let on when I inquired that the lot had been in his family for nearly seventy years, and when I asked him why he’d never built on it, he’d waved his hand casually and said that he had a perfectly lovely home just two miles away, and while his wasn’t an oceanfront view, he’d never felt that developing the lot was quite worth the trouble.

  On that I had to disagree with him, because even after all that Heather Holland and the East Hampton planning board had put me through, I loved my beautiful new home.

  “Cat?” I heard Gilley say.

  I jumped a little. “Yes, Gil?”

  “You okay? You’ve been standing there, staring at your house for a long time.”

  “Sorry,” I told him, moving forward down the walk again. “I just love my home, and in spite of all the trouble, I’m happy I built it and moved here.”

  “Me too,” Gilley said, with a grin.

  We reached the back door, and my knock was answered by the same severe woman who’d greeted us at the front entrance. She didn’t speak to us; she merely opened the door, then turned away to walk back inside.

  “Well, that was doubly rude,” Gil said. Even he was starting to get angry at the way we were being treated.

  I sighed. This was going to be a long afternoon. Turning to him, I held out my hands and said, “Give me the punch bowl, and take the car, Gilley. Go have a lovely afternoon. Do some shopping or take in a movie, and I’ll call you when the luncheon is over, and you can come pick me up.”

  Gilley carefully set the punch bowl into my outstretched arms and kissed my cheek. “Tootles, sugar. Good luck, and remember, you’re a successful, beautiful woman in a killer suit, and Heather Holland can go suck eggs.”

  I chuckled as Gilley turned away. He always knew just what to say.

  Moving through the open door, I found myself in a large kitchen filled with men and women in black pants, white shirts, and black blazers bustling about and picking up carefully prepared trays of food and drink. “Where should I set this?” I asked the grouchy housekeeper.

  She pointed to the kitchen island. I moved carefully to the designated spot and set down the punch bowl. I was about to turn away from it and leave it for the catering staff to deal with when the housekeeper said, “Wait!”

  “What?” I asked.

  She produced a large butcher knife, and I took a step back, but then realized she was only going to use it to slice through the plastic wrap. After cutting into the wrap and pulling it off the punch bowl, the woman dipped a spoon into my concoction and held it to her lips. “Did you follow the recipe?”

  “Yes,” I said, unable to hide the annoyance in my voice.

  “Exactly as it was written?” she pressed.

  I took a deep breath and stared hard at this woman. Who did she think she was? “Yes,” I said sharply. “Why? Is there a problem?”

  The woman bent forward and sipped at the juice. She then smacked her lips a few times before setting down the spoon. “I will give it a pass,” she said, then had the nerve to point to the swinging door of the kitchen and add, “You may take it out to the guests.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I said, “Oh, may I? That’s fantastic.”

  The grumpy housekeeper narrowed her own eyes but didn’t comment further.

  A small growl of annoyance escaped my lips, but I again reminded myself that I shouldn’t be taking the bait on anything that Heather wanted to serve up to me and, instead, reached again for the punch bowl, lifting it up and carrying it very slowly and very carefully through the swinging door and out into the main gathering for the luncheon.

  As the door behind me began to shut, I heard the housekeeper call out to me, “Put it on the side table next to the ice sculpture.”

  Stepping into the large room, which was alive with chatter, I realized two things immediately. One: by the looks of the half-consumed cocktails in many of the women’s hands, I was at least a half hour late. Two: every woman holding a cocktail was also wearing some sort of jewel-toned colored ensemble.

  “Over there,” said a voice behind me when I paused to take in the room.

  I recognized it as the housekeeper’s, and my gaze followed her finger as it pointed to a spot on the bar where about two dozen crystal punch glasses were arranged.

  Still thrown by my first two impressions of the room, I hastened to the bar but continued to hold the bowl in my arms without setting it down. My mind was starting to put two and two together, and my cheeks got hot when I confirmed my suspicions by glancing around the room again, verifying that all of the guests attending the luncheon were dressed in bright vivid colors, while all of the help—that is, all staff currently carrying trays and catering to the guests—were clad in black and white.

  Just like me.

  I could feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment, fury, and panic. Heather had set me up perfectly, and I’d fallen for it.

  Looking around while I considered a fight-or-flight plan, my gaze landed on a woman with lovely features and very long, straight blond hair dressed in a smart indigo-blue dress that almost hid a baby bump and matching suede flats. She smiled warmly and approached me. “Hello,” she said while I simply stood there, frozen in indecision.

  “Good afternoon,” I managed.

  She pointed to the burden in my arms. “Is that punch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it have alcohol in it?”

  “Um . . . no,” I said, my mind working furiously back through the recipe. “It’s just apple cider, Sprite, orange juice, and cranberry cocktail. With some cloves and cinnamon thrown in.”

  Her smile widened, and she added a laugh. “Sounds delicious. Can I have some?”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course,” I stammered, quickly setting the punch bowl down to the relief of my aching my arms. Meanwhile the woman started to chat me up.

  “Heather almost never has anything but sparkling water and alcohol at these things,” she began. Patting her baby bump, she said, “Obviously I’m avoiding alcohol, but sparkling water just gives me gas.”

  I nodded stiffly while I ladled some of the punch into a crystal punch glass and handed it to her. “Thanks,” she said. After taking a sip, she added, “Oh, that’s heaven.” Then she pointed at me. “I love your uniform, by the way. All these other helpers look like they shop at the thrift store, but your suit looks so professional.”

  I wanted to sink into the floor. I opened my mouth to let her know that my “uniform” was actually Chanel, but at that moment, three other women appeared in front of us, and one of them pointed toward the bar. “We’d like some punch, please.”

  Not knowing what else to do, I ladled each of them a glass and handed them over. Thinking I could still salvage some dignity, I pushed a friendly smile to my face and said, “I’m Catherine Cooper.”

  “Good for you, honey,” one of them said.

  My smile faltered. “I’m from next door,” I said, trying to clarify.

  “Oh, are you Anastasia’s girl?” another woman asked while she gave me the up-down.

  “N-no . . . I—”

  “Ana’s help is always so well dressed,” she continued, cutting me off and further insulting me by speaking to her friends as if I wasn’t standing right in front of her. Turning back to me, she said, “When you go back, tell Ana we hope she feels better soon. Such a shame she couldn’t make it today.”

  With a tisk, she and the three others left, but the pregnant woman still stood there and considered me curiously. “Hmm,” she said. “I don’t remember you from Ana’s Labor Day barbecue. Were you working that day?”


  A bubble of emotions began to ride up from my stomach. I was embarrassed, and furious, and didn’t quite trust my voice, so I took a moment to swallow hard before saying, “I’m not on anyone’s staff. I’m Catherine Cooper. Heather invite—”

  “Can I get some punch?” someone asked loudly. I turned to see yet another woman and two friends standing to my right, holding up empty cups.

  At that moment, my temper got the best of me. Of course, we Cooper girls are known for our tempers. Sometimes it’s cute. Sometimes it’s ugly. Today I knew it was about to get full-on, what-the-fugly?!

  “Help yourself,” I snapped. I then left the stunned foursome and walked purposely into the center of the room, searching . . .

  “Do you have any more of those crab cakes?” a woman in an emerald sweater and brown leather skirt asked as she walked up to me.

  “How the hell would I know?” I said angrily.

  She put a hand to her chest. “You’re rude!”

  I laughed in her face. “I’m just gettin’ started, honey. Where’s Heather?”

  The woman looked me up and down as if she could hardly believe I had the nerve to address her like that, so to speed things along, I snapped my fingers in her face and said, “Heather. Where is she?”

  At last, the woman pointed across the room, where an archway led to yet another room.

  With a brisk nod, I set off.

  I found Heather, standing with four other women, all impeccably dressed in vivid colors, but Heather herself stood out even among that crowd. Clad in a persimmon leather skirt with a wide gold belt, an amethyst blouse, and turquoise, knee-high suede boots, she looked like something fresh off the Gucci runway.

  For a moment, I was so mad I simply stood there, seething, and trying to decide what choice words I could hurl at my host for setting me up so despicably. As I was formulating my speech, however, the woman with the emerald-green sweater that I’d just left hurried past me and made a beeline for Heather. Nudging her way into the center of the crowd gathered around the host, I saw the woman lean in and whisper into Heather’s ear.

  For her part, Heather appeared surprised, but then her gaze found me, and her brow furrowed as if she couldn’t place me at first. Then recognition lit up her features, and she adopted a puzzled expression.

  My teeth ground together as I glared at her. She pretended not to notice but simply smiled to those gathered around and said, “Excuse me one moment, ladies.”

  The group parted to allow Heather to pass, and she walked toward me with the practiced bounce of a model. Opening her arms wide, she pushed a giant smile to her lips.

  I didn’t trust her for a second. “Catherine!” she said warmly.

  “Don’t you ‘Catherine’ me,” I growled, my hands finding my hips. No way was I going to allow any kind of friendly embrace.

  Heather stopped in front of me and allowed her arms to hang there awkwardly for a moment. The women she’d just left were watching us, and I could see the puzzled expressions on their faces too.

  “You set me up!” I hissed.

  Heather’s arms dropped dramatically. “Catherine, whatever are you talking about?”

  I waved a hand down my front. “This.”

  “It’s a lovely suit, dear, but why would you come wearing black and white to a jewel-tone themed luncheon?”

  The ladies behind Heather edged closer toward us, completely engrossed in what was obviously about to become a scene.

  “I’m wearing this because you told me this was a black and white themed affair.” I was aware that I was speaking through clenched teeth, likely giving me the appearance of snarling at our host. I didn’t care.

  “What?” Heather said loudly. “Oh my goodness, no! Black and white is what I require the staff to wear. It helps my guests to identify them at these affairs, you know?”

  I narrowed my eyes to mere slits. Heather’s tone and manner were conciliatory—gentle even. There wasn’t a trace of snark or snide amusement. Bitch.

  “Well, Heather, my invitation noted black and white attire. It didn’t say anything about wearing jewel tones.”

  Heather’s gorgeous face fell into a sad pout. “Oh, Catherine,” she said tossing up her hands. “Come now, don’t be upset. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. Perhaps you misread the invitation.”

  “I didn’t misread it. It plainly stated that I was to wear black and white to your party.”

  “Well, I personally wrote out all the invitations, and I would never have my friendly neighbor from just next door come dressed as a servant, of all things.” Heather chuckled merrily, and some of the other women, who had by now gathered around us, also laughed lightly. I was being taken for a fool.

  “You clearly treated me like a servant when you texted me just an hour ago to bring punch to the party,” I snapped.

  Heather put a hand to her lips. Looking troubled, she said, “Oh, my. Now I see what’s happened. I believe the caterer’s name is Cathy. I must’ve mixed the two of you up when I was trying to put the finishing touches on the luncheon. Did you bring punch, dear? I have several guests who don’t drink alcohol. And I hope you followed the recipe to the letter. Like I said, I have several guests who don’t drink.”

  I could feel myself seething. Heather was so clearly lying. I could see it in her eyes, but she was playing up this act of miscommunication really well, and all the women around her seemed to be buying her lies. It infuriated me.

  “Yes, I brought the punch and I followed your recipe!” I snapped. “Your housekeeper even taste-tested it like I’m some idiot who can’t follow simple directions. It was frankly insulting, but not nearly as insulting as the fact that when I arrived with the punch, your housekeeper wouldn’t even allow me through the front door! She insisted I use the back entrance.”

  Heather’s gaze gave me the once-over. “Well, she probably thought you were staff, dear. I would’ve directed you to the back as well if you were wearing that outfit and carrying a large punch bowl.”

  And that’s when I knew I had her. I never mentioned anything about bringing the punch over in my own large crystal bowl. Glancing to my right, I spotted the grand window with a view of the front yard. And then I glanced back to the spot where Heather had been first standing before coming over to me. I realized that she’d been perfectly positioned to watch each guest arrive—or, more importantly, to watch for when I arrived.

  Something else crystalized for me in that moment too: from the many parties and luncheons I myself have thrown, I knew that no party ever has all the guests arriving early. And then I thought about the start time of the luncheon on my invitation. It’d read 12:30 p.m. Not noon, as was more customary, but half past.

  That in and of itself had initially struck me as odd because it meant that, with those attendees who’d be late, lunch wouldn’t start until closer to one or one-thirty, but I’d passed it off in my mind as just a simple quirk. I now knew that it wasn’t nearly that simple. Heather had scheduled her guests to arrive at noon, and she’d written out my invite for twelve-thirty to ensure that I’d be among the last to arrive. Late. Wearing the catering staff’s colors, ushered through the back door, and guaranteed to feel embarrassed and out of place when I stepped into a room filled with women wearing vivid jewel tones.

  To confirm my suspicions, I turned to a woman to my right and asked, “Out of curiosity, what time was this little affair supposed to start?”

  Her brow furrowed, and I could see she felt put on the spot, but she said, “Noon.”

  “Ah,” I said, narrowing my eyes to look scathingly back at Heather. “That’s funny. My invite said twelve-thirty.”

  Heather sighed audibly. “Well, now you’re just making things up, Catherine! It couldn’t possibly have said that. All my luncheons begin at twelve. Otherwise, we’d be eating far too late.”

  “Well, mine said twelve-thirty.”

  “Do you have the invite?” she asked me, all sweetness and light.

  I wanted
to punch her. “No.” I’d stupidly left it on the kitchen counter.

  Heather threw her hands up in the air like she simply didn’t know how to make me happy. “Would you like to go home and change?” she asked, as if exasperated by our conversation. “Lunch is about to be served, but if you’re uncomfortable, I suppose we could wait . . .” And then there was a tiny crack in the fissure of her pretense, and she added, “Or you can grab a tray from the back and help serve.”

  Around us there was a tiny gasp of surprise, and about a dozen muffled snickers. My humiliation was complete.

  Still, Heather had yet to learn about the Cooper temper. Abby—my short-fused sister—even has a pet name for when mine flares. She calls me “the Catken.”

  She may be underselling it.

  “You know what, Heather, dear?” I said, popping out a hip and placing a hand on it. “I think going home is exactly what I’ll be doing, but I won’t be returning. We all know you set me up with this little scheme. You wanted me to show up in black and white attire. You wanted me to arrive a half hour later than your other guests. You wanted me to be directed to the back door so that I’d come into your little party and stick out like a sore thumb. Miscommunication my ass, lady!”

  “Catherine, please,” Heather said, placing a hand to her heart. “It hurts me that you could think I would do anything to jeopardize the good relationship we have as neighbors.”

  “Good relationship?!” I yelled. “Are you kidding me?!”

  The room turned loud with silence. All murmuring and talking had hushed the second I’d started yelling, and glancing around, I saw how shocked everyone appeared. Even the women who’d been in on the joke seemed surprised that I’d get so mad.

  I wanted to laugh right in all of their shocked faces. Meanwhile, Heather had taken a step toward me, her hands clasped together in something of a pleading gesture. “Catherine, I’m very sorry if I’ve offended you—”

  “Oh, cut the crap! You’ve been nothing but a nightmare to deal with for me and my building crew from the moment we broke ground. You and all your other little flying monkeys can laugh at my expense and eat your lame little lunch or throw feces at one another for all I care, but mark my words, Heather Holland, you’ve been messing with the wrong woman. I am done playing nice!”