Monday mornings at the Blackwood estate were usually a symphony of efficiency. Today, however, the silence in the kitchen was loud enough to rattle the china.
Helen Blackwood stood at the granite island, aggressively arranging a massive bouquet of white lilies into a crystal vase. She was wearing her silk robe like a suit of armor, her movements sharp and precise.
Damon walked in, dressed in his charcoal suit, seeking coffee and a reprieve. He got neither.
"Good morning," Damon ventured, heading for the coffee maker.
"Is it?" Helen replied without looking up. She snipped a stem with a pair of shears—a sound that made Damon wince. "I'm just finishing the arrangement for the Hendersons. Since someone couldn't be bothered to apologize yesterday."
"I told you to send flowers on my card," Damon muttered, pouring his coffee. "I didn't say you had to build a botanical garden in the kitchen."
