Claudine went room to room, the house a swirl of activity, observing the last of the party prep. In the kitchen, chefs put finishing touches on hors d’oeuvres, plating the ones that came out cold. Poached shrimp on rice crackers, tiny crudité kabobs. Dessert towers were being built, small bites of indulgence on each tier. One waiter was setting out the cheese straws and bowls of holiday nuts. Another twisting stacks of napkins into a sculpture-like formation. The third weaving in and out of each room, a thin dust towel in each hand, making sure there wasn’t a stray particle on any surface. She had told the catering company to send their best-looking group, and they hadn’t disappointed. They were all in their twenties, with the kind of lean bodies that come from spending most of their time skiing. All of their bustling was underscored by the piano player warming up on the Steinway.

In the living room the bartender was polishing glasses and icing down white wine and champagne.

“My husband will be the one with the salt-and-pepper hair and can’t-miss blue eyes. He’s sober and I work to keep him that way. We all like a bit of theatre, so please make sure his drinks look like drinks. Serve them in the same glass you would any other cocktail. Understand?”

“Of course.”

“I appreciate your discretion.”

Since Louisa wasn’t there yet, Claudine hung up her own coat, a tiger print Cavalli. It was a pity Zara wouldn’t have a chance to compliment it. If the weather had been nicer, post–Secret Santa, they would have gathered with hot chocolate around one of the many firepits, the perfect chance to show it off. Oh well, a small glitch in the scheme of things. Nothing would spoil her good mood. She clutched her gift with both hands. The smooth silver paper felt cool. The ivy twisted around like green barbed wire, a substitute ribbon. Jules would be in charge of arranging the other gifts, but with no one else there to see, Claudine personally set hers down front and center on the table.

Henry

He was happy to drive over alone, wanted time in the car to think. To transform into a version of himself that could pull off what he needed to. It would help to conjure up something positive to focus on. Maybe his initials would still be there? He’d carved them in a hidden spot and never even told Claudine, a secret between him and the house. Leaving his mark seemed necessary. Initially he thought of it like an artist signing a painting, but over the years it felt more like how someone signs a confession. The deep cut of the H.C. branding both him and the house, making sure neither one forgot what had happened on this spot.