Several had noticed she glanced at Eleanor first. A few had heard the argument between Sloan and Harrison near the outdoor kitchen twenty minutes earlier. Nobody believed accident anymore. Harrison looked around the patio and realized he no longer had the private room he wanted.
That had been his preferred method for months: move uncomfortable things into private spaces, soften the edges, persuade his mother not to “make a thing” of whatever Sloan had done, then persuade Sloan that Eleanor was “old-school” and needed time. Privacy had allowed him to remain loved by both women without fully choosing honesty with either. The smashed cake had ended that arrangement. He took Sloan’s elbow.
“Come on,” he said. She jerked away. “My purse is on fire.” “I know.”
“My wallet is in there.” Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “You left your wallet in a handbag you asked me to watch burn?” “I didn’t ask you to burn anything!”
Sloan shouted. Harrison stepped between them. “Enough.” Eleanor looked directly at him.
“You are right. Enough.” That sentence landed differently. Harrison heard it.
He went still. Eleanor pointed toward the side gate. “Leave.” This time he did.
Sloan followed him across the lawn, muttering that she was calling the police, her heels sinking slightly into the turf. Guests parted to let them pass. Harrison looked back once before the gate closed, but Eleanor had already turned away. The fire pit continued burning.