Everything would have to be perfect. Moira’s family didn’t take holidays lightly and it was her first time hosting. Her parents had both been very resistant to the idea, citing that her “lack of a traditional feminine touch” might make throwing a party of this nature “a challenge.”
It was T-minus 24 hours to zero hour and this was the dress rehearsal. If anything was out of place her mother would hold it over her until one of them was dead and buried. If Moira died first, the disastrous party would probably be mentioned in her eulogy—possibly even emblazoned on her headstone. Moira wasn’t about to give her mother that satisfaction; she was determined to succeed.
She surveyed the spread, adjusted position of a few of the canapes, and took reference photos. She sampled each dish in turn, took notes on any adjustments that would have to be made to the recipes for the real deal. There weren’t many.
The food would be perfect, she looked the part of gracious hostess, and her mother would be having a side of crow with the holiday meal. The very thought made the dessert tartlets taste just a little bit sweeter.