Dropping the Ball

35. Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

Kaitlyn

We decide Micah should meet me at my house, and when he rings the doorbell, I open it wearing a tight smile and Lela Rose silk pants in a hand-painted floral motif with a cashmere sweater. The colors are muted mauves and creams, tasteful for a family dinner. A semiformal family dinner.

I nearly swallow my tongue when I see Micah. He’s in a three-button brown suede blazer over charcoal slacks and a thin forest green sweater.

“You look good,” I say. He looks perfect .

“Can’t embarrass my client,” he tells me. “Who’s driving?”

I reach for my purse and pull out my keys. “Can you handle the Audi?”

He grins. “Grandson of the Croft racing empire? I’ll be fine.”

He greets Daisy with scritches before I lead him to the garage and hit the automatic opener. He holds my door for me, settles into the driver’s seat, and starts the engine. A slow smile curls over his mouth as he feels the purr and thrum.

I get it. Usually, starting the engine sends the same vibrations up my legs and back, but this time Micah’s smile does.

He backs out smoothly, and once we’re on the road toward my parents’ place, he glances over at me, his expression serious.

“Wingman,” he says. “That means you’re telling them about the auction?”

“I am.”

“You nervous?”

I pluck at my pants, trying to make the crease . . . creasier. “I have a plan, and I’m trying to be optimistic. I am optimistic.” But it sounds more like a question.

“What’s my role here? Bodyguard energy? Snoop Dogg at the Olympics hype?”

“You play gifted architect and honored dinner guest, and if my dad tries to intimidate you, give him that blank look like you already forgot he’s talking.”

“I don’t do that,” he says with a trace of amusement.

“It was your defining look in high school.”

“Gifted architect, huh?”

I smile. “I’m not telling you anything new.”

He shrugs. “Nice to hear it. Now, how do you turn the radio on? Majic 95.5 is already doing Christmas songs.”

“Come on. At least wait until tomorrow.”

“Driver’s rules. Radio, Katie.”

I groan but put it on, and we spend the rest of the drive with him humming along softly while I tell him about who he’ll meet at dinner and what to expect.

My parents live in a gated community because of course they do. The guard lets us in and we drive another mile to get to their street. Their house is . . . ridiculous, honestly. It’s fifteen thousand square feet, and it was too much space even when all four of us lived here. Madison and Oliver’s car is already in the driveway, and I’m glad the six-car garage is closed. Micah doesn’t need to know they have a Bentley, a Rolls, and matching Mercedes.

Micah parks and makes no comment about any of it.

“Here we go,” I say. I lead him into the house and follow the sound of conversation to the living room.

“Katie!” Madison cries as I walk in. “And Micah!”

After Dad has handed Micah a drink and introductions have been made, Marta, my parents’ long-time housekeeper, comes in and tells Mom, “Dinner is served.”

We all rise and trail after my parents to the formal dining table set with gleaming crystal and china. We take our places with Micah between me and Madison, and then Marta and her grown daughter begin serving, setting fully plated Thanksgiving meals in front of each of us. Dad offers a Thanksgiving toast, and the feasting begins.

“Who cooks all this?” Micah asks after trying the turkey.

“Mom has it catered. It’s good,” I say. “Maybe not neighborhood potluck good.”

“Nothing ever is,” he says. “This is a different kind of delicious. Thanks for inviting me.”

Inevitably, Madison asks how the gala plans are going.

“I’d like to hear too,” Mom says, ears perking up across the table.

“The venue looks incredible,” I say. “To be expected when you have the most talented architect in town. Madison chose well.”

“Tell us about your work, Micah,” Mom says, the consummate hostess. “What drew you to architecture?”

I breathe a sigh of relief as the conversation moves on. I’ll tackle the auction when everyone is in a post-feast stupor.

Eventually, pie is served, plates are cleared, and Harper begins to fuss in her carrier strapped to Oliver’s chest, signaling it’s time for everyone to move.

Back we go into the living room for after-dinner drinks, and as everyone settles onto furniture and a lull falls over the room, Micah shoots me a curious look.

I clear my throat. “If I could have your attention, please.”

All heads turn to me. Madison’s eyes dart between me and Micah.

“I told you that Micah has done a brilliant job with the art installation, proving Madison’s idea was genius. The venue will have everyone talking in the best way. But we do have a problem.”

Madison straightens. “What problem?”

“The auction,” I say. “Donations are far below what we had hoped. I’ve done everything I know how to do, started asking some questions, and found the problem, and I may have the solution.”

“What do you mean donations are far below?” Mom asks. “Have you tried—”

“Mom,” I say, holding up my hand. “Very probably yes. I will explain why they’ve been hard to get and how I think we’ll fix that, but I’m going to ask you to trust me for one more day. I’d like to show rather than tell you.”

I stand, feeling like I need the extra authority. “Let me explain what we have first.” I list off the auction items, and they nod at each of them. It’s not until I hit the end of the short list that concern crosses their faces.

“That’s it?” Mom asks.

“Yes.”

“Care to explain this ‘problem’ you’re talking about?” Dad asks. His tone has an edge that warns he’s about to lose his temper. That won’t mean yelling. It will mean cutting sarcasm and get worse from there.

I knew this would happen, and I draw a deep breath, prepping myself not to retreat.

“No, Dad.” That’s all Madison says.

Oliver is standing beside her, gently bouncing Harper, but he stops and rests his hand on Madison’s shoulder, squaring his own and settling a level stare at my dad. At the same time, Micah slides to the edge of the sofa cushion and perches beside me. He crosses his arms, fixing my dad with the exact same look. It’s a warning. Don’t .

The silence is growing tense, and I should break it, but I can’t. For the first time since the auction shortage turned critical, I want to cry. But they’re tears of gratitude. Three people are stepping up—not to protect me but to back me.

While I try to level out my sudden weepiness, Mom clears her throat.

“Regardless of why this happened, I was just thinking about Margaret Lim. She owns that antiques shop in New Orleans,” she says, “and she mentioned this fabulous wall paneling she brought straight over from a castle in France. Well, not straight over. Some Hollywood producer brought it over for his mansion in the 1930s, just lifted it straight off that castle wall and put it in his study, I believe. Anyway, Margaret bought it at his estate sale about three years ago, but she can’t get any nibbles on it. Everyone wants to do tacky farmhouse or Swedish college student.”

“Why are we talking about Margaret’s panels?” I ask patiently.

“Because I can think of at least three showoffs who would try to outbid each other in an effort to buy some class if you presented those panels right, and I do believe Margaret will let us take them off her hands for cost at this point.”

Oliver rounds his eyes. “Castle walls, Katie-Kat. We need them.”

“You hush, Oliver,” Mom says. “You know you have some fancy Oklahoma horse people who would love slapping them up in their house.”

“No, ma’am,” he says. “You’re thinking Virginia horse people,” which makes my dad chuckle.

I can’t believe my parents are taking this so well, but Madison isn’t finding anything about this funny. Faint stress lines show around her eyes. “Why is this the first time we’re hearing about this?”

“Because I thought it would kill me to see the look you have on your face right now,” I tell her. “I was terrified of letting you down until Micah pointed out that not telling you was worse.”

“He’s right,” she says. “I needed to know. Who have you approached, what did you ask for, and why did they say no?”

I go to her, kneeling down and resting my hands on her knees. “Madi, do you believe that up to this point, I have done everything I can and given it the best I have?” It’s the scariest question of all.

She leans over and hugs my head, which is very Madi, but gently, not full of exuberance, which isn’t Madi at all. “Of course I believe that. I love you.”

I believe her, but I also know she still thinks I missed something, thinks she would have found a way to fill the auction already. She believes this, but she’s hugging me and loving me anyway. This is how it is now. I can practically feel her shifting this burden to herself, taking it from me without withdrawing an ounce of her support.

But this is not how it will go.

“Love you too. Let me up,” I tell her. “I’m not done yet.”

She straightens, stress still showing around her eyes even though she smiles at me.

I squeeze her knees. “The second I accepted that I had to tell you, the universe did its thing and the answers started coming. I’m asking you to trust me a little longer. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” She shifts in her chair, like she’s fighting to keep some words in, but Madison being Madison, they burst out anyway. “But am I allowed to ask how long?”

I grin and stand, going back to my spot beside Micah to address everyone. “I know it’s going to be hard, but I’m going to ask you all to resist calling your friends to start asking for donations. Especially you, Mom. I want you and Madison to meet me at the warehouse tomorrow at 10:00, and I’ll show you how we’re going to turn things around. Will you promise not to call in any favors before that?”

“Yes, but Margaret—”

“Please, Mom.”

She looks troubled, but she nods. “No calls until I hear your plan.”

“Madison,” I say, meeting her eyes. “I’ve thought it through and put the pieces in place, and I’m ready to show you. Will you promise to consider it long and hard before you react?”

“I promise,” she says. No hesitation, and it eases the clenched feeling I’ve carried around in my chest since Drake’s words truly sunk in. “But I can’t promise I’ll stay on the sidelines after tomorrow.”

“Understood.” I shoot Oliver a glance as he nestles Harper against his chest and sways. “Sorry, Oliver.”

He smiles. “It’s fine. It wouldn’t be the worst thing for her to have a little less free time.”

“Does she keep making projects for you?” I ask.

Madison glares at him. “What? You have to agree that the downstairs bathroom needed a glow up.”

Oliver clears his throat and smiles at me, saying nothing.

“Tomorrow at 10:00?” I repeat. Madison and Mom both confirm. “Good. Then I have a few things to work on tonight, so I’m going to rescue Micah here from all your nosiness, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Micah stands and Dad sets his drink down to walk us out.

“Don’t worry about it, Dad. We’ll see ourselves out.” We wave and leave.

“You did great,” Micah says when the front door is closed behind us. “You didn’t even need me there.”

“Maybe not, but I wanted you there.”

He draws me into a hug, and we stand there for a long time. I’m not even thinking anything, just drawing calm from his warmth and the quiet.

“How are you feeling?” he asks after a while.

“Okay,” I say, stepping back. “Like actually okay.” I hold out my hands for my keys. “I stuck with water all night, so I’m driving. And controlling the radio.”

He rolls his eyes but hands them over. When I start the car and “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” plays from the speakers, I leave it, and I don’t miss Micah’s smile.