Patricia called from the kitchen doorway, voice sharp with entitlement. “Eleanor, check on the appetizers. I think they’re running low.”
I ignored her.
I walked to the center of the deck and lifted my voice just enough to cut through the noise.
“Excuse me, everyone,” I said. “If I could have just a moment.”
People turned. Some smiled politely. Some looked confused, as if they’d assumed the older woman was part of the scenery.
“I want to thank you all for coming to enjoy this beautiful property,” I continued. “It’s wonderful to see so many new faces.”
Brandon’s smile widened, thrilled that I was playing hostess for his networking fantasy.
“Before we continue,” I said, pulling out my phone, “I have a few quick announcements.”
That’s when the catering truck pulled into my driveway.
Not a small local setup. This was Tom Morrison’s premium event service, complete with uniformed staff, a full mobile kitchen, linen carts, and the kind of equipment you see at corporate galas.
Melissa’s hostess smile faltered. “What’s that?”
“Oh, that’s dinner,” I said cheerfully. “I thought since we were hosting such an event, we should do it right. Prime rib, lobster tails, champagne service.”
Brandon’s expression shifted from pleased to confused to alarmed in about ten seconds.
“Mom,” he hissed, grabbing my elbow. “We already bought steaks.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “We’ll save them for another time.”
Tom Morrison himself approached, clipboard in hand, wearing the satisfied expression of a man being paid double for a rush job.
“Ms. Sterling,” he said. “Where would you like the champagne station?”
Brandon’s eyes widened. “Champagne station?”
“Right by the pool,” I said. “And make sure everyone gets the good stuff. Dom. Not the house champagne.”
A ripple moved through the crowd. People recognized quality when they heard it.
Within thirty minutes, my deck transformed. Linens. Crystal. Silver service. The casual barbecue became a high-end dinner party with a price tag that made Brandon’s face tighten into panic.
He pulled me aside again, voice strained. “What is this going to cost?”
I smiled, sweet and steady. “Don’t worry, honey. It’s all taken care of.”
What I didn’t say—what I enjoyed not saying—was that “taken care of” didn’t mean “paid by me forever.”
It meant I was about to teach my son what management actually looks like.
And the first lesson was expensive……………………
