Big Benâs glass door, stepping aside for a couple who had walked into the tea shop.
âWhy not next weekend?â her father asked.
âWhy not what next weekend?â Dawn answered distractedly. She tugged on her calfskin gloves then buttoned her coat. She pulled out her cell phone.
âYou should come to Windhill Downs!â
She looked up from the messages on her phone screen. âWhatâs Windhill Downs?â
âMy property . . . my estate . . . thatâs what we call it. You should come there! In fact, why donât you come next weekend and have dinner with the rest of the family? We throw a Christmas Eve bash every year, but we try to also have an intimate dinnerâfamily onlyâthe night before that.â
Dawn stopped midmotion. Her slender fingers hovered over her phone. She gaped. âAn intimate dinner? â she choked. âNext . . . next weekend?â
He nodded eagerly.
Oh, hell, Dawn thought. It was one thing agreeing to meet her long-lost father. It was a completely different matter having dinner with her father, stepmother, and sister at âWindhill Downs.â Shouldnât she be slowly eased into this? She wasnât sure if she was ready to take on the whole family right now.
Dawn stared down at her father, trying to find a delicate way to decline his invitation.
âIâd be honored to have you there, sweetheart,â he said softly.
Dawn grimaced. Damn it, she thought. How could she possibly say no?
âSure, uh . . . give me the address and the time and Iâll be there.â
âWonderful!â her father exclaimed.
Dawn lowered her phone back into her purse. She wished she could be equally excited. She wondered what her sisters would think when she told them about this one.
Chapter 5
âN ow, we can hold the wedding ceremony here,â Cynthia Gibbons said as she pointed to the front hall and walked swiftly across the marble-tiled floor. Her voice and the sound of her high heels echoed off the front hallâs coffered ceilings and forest green walls. âMama, you can enter the ceremony this way, down the left wing staircase. It would definitely be dramatic.â
âIt would, wouldnât it?â Yolanda said before turning to the squat man who stood beside her. Her arm was looped through his. âWhat do you think, honey? Does the staircase sound nice?â
A smile creased his dark, bulldog-like face as he warmly patted Yolandaâs hand. âWhatever you want, baby.â
Whatever you want, baby .... Those seemed to be the only words that came out of Reginald Whitfieldâs mouth since Cynthia started giving him and her mother the grand tour of the recently restored historic mansion, Glenn Dale. Cynthia had spearheaded the renovation of the mansion herself as head of the historic preservation association in Chesterton. Yolanda and Reginald planned to hold their nuptials there in March. Reginald didnât seem to have any opinions on the venue, the ceremony, the reception, or the décor. He was leaving all the decision making to Yolanda.
Which is just as well, Cynthia thought wryly. Her mother was marrying him for his willingness to write checks, not for his opinions.
âAnother thing you two may want to consider is where youâll hold the cocktail hour for the reception,â Cynthia said as she walked across the front hall and pointed to the adjacent rooms. âYou can hold it either in the front parlor or one of the sitting rooms.â
âHmm, I donât know.â Yolanda turned to Reginald expectantly again. âAny preference, sweetheart? One of the sitting rooms or the parlor?â
Yolanda was in her mid-sixties, but she looked several years younger and was still a very beautiful woman. Her salt-and-pepper hair was upswept today, though soft curls fell around her face. She wore a trim tan Michael Kors suit and a simple string of pearls.
Reginald looked out of place