Preston Holloway stood with his mouth agape, his champagne flute tilting until twenty-dollar-an-ounce wine poured over his designer Italian loafers:
“What… what is this?!” Preston stammered, his microphone squealing with feedback:
“Whose children are those?!”
The twins did not look at Preston. They sprinted across the turf, completely bypassing the marquee tables, throwing their small, energetic arms around my knees, burying their faces against my silk trousers:
“Mommy, we missed you!” Liam giggled, holding up a small brass compass: “Uncle Garrett let us steer the naval cutter!”
Noah grinned, wrapping his arms around my waist: “Are we going home to Lake Norman now, Mommy?”
I knelt on the grass, wrapping my arms around my two beautiful, healthy, laughing four-year-old sons, pressing my lips against their soft foreheads.
Preston took three frantic, uncoordinated strides down the terrace steps, his face turning an apoplectic, blotchy crimson:
“Audrey…?! What kind of sick, desperate stunt are you pulling?!” Preston roared, pointing his trembling finger at the boys:
