“She has this quiet elegance, Mother,” he said, looking toward Rosalind.

“It is exactly what the family needs.” Rosalind sat erect in her wrought-iron chair, her silk lapels perfectly smooth, her eyes moving over the manicured lawn and never quite landing on mine.

“Elegance is a quiet business,” she said.

“It does not seek attention.” He squeezed my fingers just short of painful, a small private reminder, and I did not pull away.

When Jonathan excused himself to take a call from his foreman, I was left alone with Rosalind, the servers gone back to the kitchen, only the wind in the cedars and the ice melting in our glasses.