Beach Thriller(16)
The Barefoot Beach Ball (play on words intended) is the event of the season in Beauport. The sublime sandy soiree is famed not only for its splendor but also for the murmured complaints of the local staff, who have to trudge everything to the beach.
Partygoers descend the illuminated stone steps carved into the cliff, leading from the lush lawn at the top of the bluff to the white party tent just beyond the reach of the lapping ocean waves. A row of burning tiki torches lights up the darkness, their flickering flames casting alluring shadows.
Some walk along the warm sand, their drinks topped with fancy umbrellas, while others sway to the sounds of a nine-piece jazz band, melodic notes pulsing through the night air. Guests dance in a whirlwind of movement as caterers navigate through the crowd, ensuring drinks and appetizers are served before people even realize they want more.
Maeve, with her status and prestige, doesn’t think much about the woes of the exhausted staff, who are working for a promised bonus while also enduring a grueling workout going up and down the stairs to the beach. Lines of electric cords attached to generators high above dangle against the bluff like climbing ropes from gym class.
And the sand… it’s everywhere, except on the long tables draped in white cloth that are covered with an array of seasonal, light, and visually stunning dishes. It’s a savory feast for the sophisticated palate—no hot dogs or hamburgers at this beach cookout.
Sea air filling your lungs and sand between your toes can lift anyone’s mood. Even the most serious bankers can’t help but feel like children playing on the shoreline. For these select few guests, the night feels magical, embodying perfection. For Anna, it’s as if she’d been granted her greatest wish—except for one minor flaw. She wasn’t invited to the party; she’s working it. And she wears shoes that are killing her feet, since staff aren’t allowed to go barefoot. In Maeve Carmichael’s social hierarchy, shoes reveal your lower-class status.
Anna’s job is straightforward: Serve food and drinks to the barefoot guests without making a mess. Everything has to be flawless, and for good reason. Historically, Maeve’s Barefoot Beach Ball has been a major fundraiser for various causes. But tonight, the elite of Beauport have gathered to celebrate her son’s engagement to a member of the prominent Ward family. Maeve wants all the influential attendees to raise their champagne flutes and toast to the bright future of Prince Charming and his lovely bride-to-be.
Anna lugged her silver tray full of hors d’oeuvres across the spongy sand. Who knew crab and goat cheese palmiers could weigh so much?
Thank God Holly was working alongside her. Anna’s sister was two years her junior, but if you asked Holly, she would claim to be three years wiser.
“Hey, your eleven lines are showing,” Holly warned. “You’re not getting a Pap smear—you’re serving food to rich assholes. Try smiling more, and maybe we’ll get a few tips out of this gig.”
Funny how the tables had turned. It was Anna’s idea to apply for the job. She was the one with serving experience—even if it was scooping ice cream for screaming kids at the Dairy Dip.
“I’d smile more if I didn’t have beach sand in every crevice of my body,” she told Holly in a hushed whisper. “Besides, I’ve had a sinking feeling in my stomach since we started working. It’s like I know something terrible is going to happen tonight.”
As if on cue, Maeve Carmichael approached. The wolf had arrived. Fear prickled the back of Anna’s neck. The hostess looked stunning in her light blue, plunging-neckline dress that flowed as if ocean waves were enveloping her. Not a single grain of sand marred her expensive pedicure. She had shaped her platinum hair into a gravity-defying style that resembled the topiaries out front. Anna straightened, trying to stand taller. Maeve’s burning gaze locked on her, allowing Holly to sneak off.
“Where is the caviar?” Maeve snapped.
“I’m sorry, they gave me the crab to serve,” Anna said, eyes drooping.
Maeve curled her upper lip. “I told you and your sister to serve the caviar with the Dom Pérignon, which has been circulating for twenty minutes. This is my son’s engagement party, and everything needs to be perfect.”
“I’ll take care of it immediately,” Anna stammered, enduring a crush of embarrassment.
“Hurry,” Maeve barked. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted a pair of townie mutts to do this job. But I listened to my son, who urged me to give the locals a chance.” She turned her nose up at the word locals, equating Anna with trash.
Ah, the damsel in distress and the wicked witch. What could go wrong?
Maeve’s dismissive wave sent Anna scurrying after Holly. What a terrible, horrible, awful woman, thought Anna on her way up the steep staircase and back to the kitchen. Her stomach was in knots, her palms sweaty. As unpleasant as her encounter with Maeve had been, Anna feared something far, far worse was yet to come.
Up and down she went, tray after tray of fancy foods, until finally break time arrived. Thank goodness for small miracles.
At last, Anna had a moment to herself. She was far enough from the beach that the jazz band sounded like a muffled melody. Perched on the edge of the fountain in front of the stone house called Miramar, she drank water from a plastic bottle. Her feet felt like two melons stuffed into tiny black shoes.
Out of habit, she pulled a penny from her pocket. With her eyes closed, she made a wish. The penny flew from her hand and landed with a soft splash. It sank to the bottom, resting on heads.