Chapter 12
The water spread fast across the marble.
I stayed kneeling by the pitcher, one hand on Mia's ankle where she stood behind me. The caterer who'd come out held a tray and didn't move. The two guests on the lawn paused under the string lights.
Bianca recovered first. She set her clipboard down and smiled toward the guests.
"So sorry! Small spill! We have it handled," she said. Her voice was bright, hostess-bright.
Matteo came through the French doors from outside. He'd been talking to the foundation director by the lawn. He took in the scene in one glance — me on the floor in yellow gloves, the pitcher on its side, Mia hidden behind my shoulder, Bianca standing over us.
"What happened?" he asked. He wasn't loud.
Bianca answered before I could. "Mia was running where she shouldn't and knocked the pitcher. Elena left it on the edge. No harm done, just water."
Mia pressed closer to my back. I felt her shaking.
"It wasn't on the edge," I said quietly. "I placed it in the center. Mia was trying to get to me."
Matteo looked at me, then at Mia. "Mia, honey, are you okay?"
Mia nodded but didn't speak. Her eyes were watery, fixed on Bianca's shoes.
One of the guests, a woman in a navy dress with a foundation pin, stepped a little closer. "Is she hurt?"
"No," Bianca said quickly. "She's fine. Elena, why don't you take her back to the kitchen? I'll have someone mop."
Matteo didn't move to let me go. He bent and picked up the pitcher himself. He held it up. The cut glass caught the chandelier light. A small chip was on the base where it had hit the marble.
"Matteo, it's just a chip," Bianca said, still smiling, but her jaw was tight. "Accidents happen with children around. This is why I've said—"
"Why you've said what?" Matteo asked. His voice stayed even, but the room got quiet. The caterer set his tray down.
Bianca glanced at the guests. Her smile thinned. "That it's hard to maintain standards with — with a child underfoot during a formal event. I was trying to be accommodating."
Mrs. Dalton appeared in the side doorway, worried, looking for Mia. Matteo waved her off gently.
He set the pitcher back on the buffet, deliberately in the center, handle turned in. "Mia wasn't supposed to be in here at all," he said. "So how did she end up running through the main hall during setup?"
Bianca's hands tightened on the clipboard. "I don't know. She came in. Elena brought the pitcher out here when she was supposed to stay in the kitchen."
"I asked Elena to place it for staging," Bianca corrected herself. "It was just timing."
Mia made a small sound behind me. I stood, lifting her slightly so she wasn't standing in the water. My knees were wet. The guests were watching now, not pretending not to.
The woman in navy said softly, "She looks scared."
Matteo looked at Bianca for a long moment. The easy hostess expression she'd worn slipped. Her cheeks colored.
"Everyone, let's give them some space," Matteo said to the small gathering. "Dinner will be on the lawn in twenty minutes. Bar's open outside."
The guests moved, murmuring, toward the French doors. The foundation director touched Matteo's arm as he passed.
When they were outside, Matteo crouched to Mia's level. "Did you bump the table because you were scared to walk past Bianca?" he asked, quiet.
Mia glanced at Bianca, then at me, then gave a tiny nod. Her lip trembled.
Bianca exhaled sharply. "Matteo, you're making a lot out of a spilled pitcher. It was an accident."
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"It wasn't the spill," Matteo said, standing. He kept his hand on Mia's shoulder. "It was what you said after. In front of everyone."
I held Mia's hand. The water was still on the floor, reflecting the chandelier in a wavering line. No one moved to wipe it yet. For the first time, the guests had seen exactly what Mia saw when Bianca spoke in that calm, smiling voice, and the quiet afterward was heavier than any argument.
