“I’ll be part of getting ready for his wedding.”

George looked down at my faded canvas shoes.

He let a low, scornful breath out through his nose.

“This is Belle Meade,” George muttered.

“Not some country barn dance.

We’ve got a standard to keep up for our guests.”

He was talking to me as though I were hired help who’d strayed onto the wrong property.

“I promise you my standards are perfectly adequate,” I said.