She stood at the end of the long banquet table in the middle of my field like she had been born to be admired. She was wearing a white floor-length gown with a structured skirt and silver threading that flashed in the sun every time she moved. White heels on pasture grass. A silver tiara that looked expensive enough to need insurance. In one hand she held a champagne flute. With the other she gave people a slow, regal wrist wave like a parade queen acknowledging her subjects.
Owen stared. “Who is that?”
“The birthday girl,” I said.
“Why is she dressed like a princess?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
I told both boys to stay in the truck, got out, and started walking across the field.
It was wide open ground with no bushes, no fences, no cover between me and the party. About halfway there, heads began to turn. A few guests watched me with polite curiosity. Then more people noticed. The music kept pounding until I reached my picnic table and stopped in front of the cake.
It was impressive. Smooth white frosting, hand-placed flowers, glass candleholders, white cloth. Across the top tier, in giant pink loops, it read: HAPPY BIRTHDAY KAREN.
I was still reading it when I heard heels coming through the grass behind me.
She stopped three feet away and gave me one long look from boots to face, the kind that decides what you are before you have spoken.
“Who are you,” she asked, “and what are you doing on my private property?”
I almost laughed from the sheer confidence of it.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” I said. “This is my—”
“Get off my land,” she snapped, talking straight over me. Then louder, loud enough to cut through the music, she pointed at my chest and shouted, “Get off my property right now before I call the police and have you arrested.”
The DJ cut the music dead.
