Then she walked past the smashed cake. No one stopped her because no one yet understood what she intended to do. She crossed the patio toward a teak dining chair where Sloan had left a cream Gucci handbag with a gold clasp, lifted it by the narrow leather strap, and turned toward the fire pit. Sloan’s face changed first.
Harrison moved immediately. “Mom.” Eleanor kept walking. “Mom, don’t.”
Harrison reached toward the bag, but Eleanor shifted it out of his reach without breaking stride. “That bag cost twenty-five hundred.” She stopped on the far side of the fire pit. The flames moved between her and the rest of the party.
“No,” Eleanor said. “But you will be.” Sloan finally understood. “Eleanor, don’t be ridiculous.”
Eleanor held the bag out over the flame. Harrison’s voice sharpened. “Mom, seriously. Don’t.”
“Then she can watch it burn.” Sloan’s composure vanished. “Harrison, stop her! That’s Gucci!”
Eleanor let go. The handbag dropped into the center of the gas fire pit, landed against the ceramic logs, and immediately caught along one edge. The leather darkened, the lining curled, and one gold fitting gave a strange little metallic pop in the heat. “Oops,” Eleanor said.
Sloan screamed. Not a frightened scream. An outraged one. She lurched toward the fire pit, and Harrison grabbed her around the upper arms before she could reach into the flames.