I stopped on the flagstones.
I did not turn around to trade insults with a broken man.
Before I could take another step toward the wrought-iron gate, the heavy double mahogany doors leading from the manor house onto the rear terrace were violently flung open!
BAM.
The sound of energetic, thundering little feet hit the wooden decking!
Two four-year-old boys—identical twins with thick dark curls, laughing hazel eyes, wearing matching navy-blue sailor blazers and khaki shorts—burst onto the terrace, their arms outstretched, their high, musical voices ringing across the silent marquee:
“MOMMY! MOMMY! LOOK WHAT UNCLE GARRETT BOUGHT US AT THE HARBOR!”
The entire backyard went completely, terrifyingly paralyzed.
Fifty high-society guests froze.
Cynthia Holloway’s crystal champagne glass slipped through her paralyzed fingers, smashing into a hundred glittering shards across the flagstones: CRASH!
Brielle’s hand recoiled from her pregnant stomach as if an electric wire had struck her, her eyes bulging in pure, disbelieving horror!
