People turned. Some smiled politely. Some looked confused, as if they’d assumed the older woman was part of the scenery.
“I want to thank you all for coming to enjoy this beautiful property,” I continued. “It’s wonderful to see so many new faces.”
Brandon’s smile widened, thrilled that I was playing hostess for his networking fantasy.
“Before we continue,” I said, pulling out my phone, “I have a few quick announcements.”
That’s when the catering truck pulled into my driveway.
Not a small local setup. This was Tom Morrison’s premium event service, complete with uniformed staff, a full mobile kitchen, linen carts, and the kind of equipment you see at corporate galas.
Melissa’s hostess smile faltered. “What’s that?”
“Oh, that’s dinner,” I said cheerfully. “I thought since we were hosting such an event, we should do it right. Prime rib, lobster tails, champagne service.”
Brandon’s expression shifted from pleased to confused to alarmed in about ten seconds.
“Mom,” he hissed, grabbing my elbow. “We already bought steaks.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “We’ll save them for another time.”