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like one of those sprawling California wineries she’d always seen in the calendar pictures that hung above her desk at the gallery.
    She looked to a grassy area overlooking the bay. There was a large white tent pitched in the center. It had a lengthy stage and an archway with an outrageous amount of flowers, elegantly draped ivory gauze curtains, and strings of Italian lights being laced up all around. A commercial van sat to the side of it, where workers were unloading silver candelabras and an endlessstream of wooden crates that were being carried into the tent. What was going on? Clearly some sort of event.
    She pulled off her sunglasses and took a long look at the expanse of the house, the tent, and the bay beyond, murmuring, “Just what in the world do you do, Mr. Hanover?”
    “He was in real estate.”
    Sera thought she’d whispered the question under her breath.
    She spun around at the voice and was met by a man who had walked up behind her. He stood there, a thirtysomething Mr. California Cool with a soft blue T-shirt, matching eyes, and a Red Sox cap pulled down over his forehead.
    He wore gardener’s gloves and had a rake in one hand, with a leaf or two still stuck to the prongs.
    “Edward Hanover owned a real estate investment company,” he said, leaning on the end of the rake in a casual manner. His mouth curved with the slightest hint of a smile tucked under the shadow of the hat’s brim. “Heard you coming up the drive,” he said, and motioned to the tree-lined gate she’d driven through.
    “Oh, right.” Sera nodded and looked blankly at him for a moment.
    “Can we help you?”
    “Uh, yes. I’m here to meet with the Hanovers. I have a gallery sheet in here somewhere.” Trying to cover her embarrassment, Sera fumbled about her oversized handbag for the printout Penny had given her before she boarded the plane. The one with all of the information regarding the painting. The one that had fallen into the black hole of her purse and was presently missing in action.
    She tossed her hair back over her shoulder, now wishing that the kick of coastal wind would calm down enough so she could see what she was doing. After an awkward moment of silence, she gave up the search and plucked a business card out of her purse instead.
    “Yes. I am, uh—” She leaned in, squinting in the sun, and offered the card to him. “I’m Sera James.”
    He stared back at her as he took off the gloves and shoved them in his back pocket, a half squint evident on his face too. Her name didn’t appear to ring any bells.
    “Of the Sera James Gallery in Manhattan?” she said, eyebrows raised, although if this guy was part of the grounds crew, why was she bothering?
    “Oh yeah. The art thing.” He accepted it, then flipped the business card against his knuckles as if lost in thought. “They said someone from the gallery would be flying in soon. I didn’t expect it to be today.”
    He motioned the end of the rake past the driveway where the tent stood, bustling with workers. Sera’s gaze followed, and finally it clicked. Except for the blush pinks and muted greens of the flowers, every last detail was set in a pristine ivory. And ivory could only mean one thing.
    “They’re having a wedding?”
    He nodded.
    There was a wedding at the estate and no one had bothered to tell her. Sera gritted her teeth. She was going to kill Penny when she got home. How could her assistant fail to mention a tiny detail like a wedding, especially when the painting was at stake?
    “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know . . .” But before she could finish the apology, his attention was diverted.
    “Hey, Manhattan—would you excuse me for a moment?”
    Manhattan?
    He walked toward a younger man, midtwenties maybe, with a tan and a giggling girl positioned at each elbow. If this guy was also a member of the grounds crew, he seemed to have forgotten it. Sera noticed a rake leaning up against the side of the florist’s truck as he chatted with