by Bridie Clark
Lucy sighed. She and Wyatt had been out several times this week, and each time he found something minuscule to freak out over. She spit her fluorescent Bubbalicious into the palm of her hand. “Are you in an especially bad mood tonight, or is it me?”
“Throw it out! What if someone wants to shake your hand?”
Lucy just laughed and tossed it into the trash can behind the bar. “It’s gum, Wyatt. Do you honestly think people are paying such close attention?”
“Of course they are. You just entered a party on my arm.” He gestured toward two photographers, currently photographing Libet and her father in front of a wreath of mangos and kiwis. “They’ll zero in on us next, just watch.” Lucy straightened her dress, a bronzed-jacquard sheath that Eloise had pulled for her. It set off her olive skin and dark hair perfectly. “Now follow me, I want you to meet Rex Newhouse,” Wyatt said. “You need to thank him for his profile.”
“So how are things going with Wyatt and his new girl?” probed Binkie Howe. She and Dottie were catching up over cocktails at the Colony Club. “He seemed smitten at your dinner party. Oh, was Cornelia fuming!”
“They’re just friends,” Dottie said. That was what Wyatt wanted her to say, wasn’t it? It was easier than the truth, that was for sure.
“Friends, my foot. He had that glow, Dot. That glow you and his father used to have. I’ve seen it all before!”
The mention of her late husband made Dottie’s heart ache, as it always did. How she wished her son could find that kind of love. Instead, he was taking advantage of a poor girl who didn’t have family or friends around to protect her. The day after her party, she’d cornered him at his apartment and begged him to reconsider his actions. What would happen to Lucy after Wyatt’s little experiment had run its course? How would Lucy feel when he revealed her as a fraud, an impostor? Wyatt had spewed some nonsense about making sure Lucy found a nice job working for some designer, as if that were compensation for turning her life upside down. She’d raised a man who was incapable of thinking beyond himself.
“Mark my words,” Binkie continued. “She’s the one!”
Dottie smiled weakly. “She does seem lovely, doesn’t she? I just hope she can survive my son.”
“You’re overreacting. Nobody even noticed!” Lucy chased after Wyatt, who had charged ahead to wave down their car on Little West 12th, but it was hard to navigate the cobblestones in heels. They’d barely arrived at Libet’s party when he pulled the rip cord.
“Nobody noticed, thanks to me,” he said, not looking at her. He rapped on the car window, waking Mark the driver, who unlocked the doors. “I yanked you out of the room—”
“He’s Bono! He’s used to being photographed.”
“You sprang at him with your camera phone like a tourist hopping off a bus in Malibu. You can’t seem so starstruck! What did I tell you about visible signs of excitement?”
Lucy groaned. “I know. But my friend Doreen is such a fan—”
“You’re clearly not ready yet for civilization. We need more practice.” Wyatt pulled out a cigarette and noticed his hand was shaking slightly as he lit it. If she kept screwing up like this, his book would flatline.
“I don’t! Honestly, Wyatt, I get it—”
“Then explain why you asked me to hold your purse so you could hitch up your—I don’t know what, your undergarments? Or why you insisted on touching your earrings ten times a minute to make sure they hadn’t slipped from your earlobes?”
“It’s nerve-racking, wearing a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry clipped onto each ear!”
“You made that abundantly clear.”
“Okay, I’m sorry!” She sank into the backseat of the car, exhausted. “But I thought Rex and I had a nice conversation. I said all the stuff we’d talked about—”
Wyatt took a deep breath. “You were fine with Rex. That’s true. But we still have work to do. I don’t think you realize how much is at stake for both of us.”
Lucy glanced over at him, a sudden sympathy in her eyes. “The watch has been in your family for a few generations. It must have a lot of sentimental value, huh?” She rested her hand on his arm. “I don’t want you to lose. I’ll work harder.”
He nodded, feeling a pinprick of guilt for not sharing his real incentive. “We’ve got a few more parties this week. Just enough time to get you fully prepped for the wedding next weekend. Your first real test.”
17
Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer Winthrop
request the honour of your presence
at the marriage of their daughter
Tamsin Dean Winthrop
to Mr. Henry Baker
Saturday, the twenty-fourth of January
6 PM
Bethesda-by-the-Sea
Palm Beach
Black tie
Wyatt lit up a fresh cigarette and surveyed the vast back lawn of the Hayes estate, bursting in tropical lushness. He didn’t know whether it was the Florida heat or the anticipation of the evening’s events that had provoked the sheen of perspiration on his face and neck. Tonight would be the wedding of the year: the union of two old and powerful families from opposite coasts, two glamorous young socials, one ironclad prenup. Wyatt wiped his palms on his Turnbull & Asser tuxedo pants. He was nervous enough to be the groom. The balmy air seemed laced with excitement, even danger—how often could you say that about a Saturday night in Palm Beach?
Because Dottie was spending a week at Lyford Cay, a vacation from her life of leisure, her palatial Spanish-style spread belonged to Lucy and Wyatt for the weekend. Wyatt had momentarily worried that it might feel awkward, just the two of them inhabiting this house—but after spending 24/7 with each other for over a month, it would have felt more peculiar if Lucy were more than a shout away. So she was staying in the yellow room, he in the blue. (Dottie’s home also boasted a violet room, an apricot room, a sand-and-turquoise room, and a periwinkle-and-sage room—with so many spare bedrooms, the primary colors had quickly run out and she’d had to turn to the Crayola spectrum, plus combos.)
Wyatt knew that people would see the two of them arrive together and assume that the Hayes hacienda had become a love nest. Their careful story that he and Lucy were old friends, like cousins, had met implicit resistance with everyone except Max Fairchild: it was a detail people quickly overlooked in sizing them up as a couple. Wyatt had decided to stop fighting the current. If the social world and its onlookers saw them as a dashing duo, why not? She’d cleaned up so well—so beautifully, in fact—that he no longer worried about his rep. Besides, it only strengthened the impression that Lucy had taken her rightful place of prominence in East Coast society.
Tonight would mark Lucy’s biggest and riskiest test yet. She had more or less survived Dottie’s dinner party, Libet’s opening, a black-tie fundraiser for Mimi Rutherford-Shaw’s baby-based nonprofit (the cause du jour), and a few cocktail parties where she’d floated through conversations by nodding and saying little. But the Winthrops constituted true society, as one of the oldest families in New York City. Their ancestors had helped drive the Dutch out of New Amsterdam in 1665. And the Bakers were old San Francisco. Both families had lavish homes in Palm Beach, the perfect location for the convergence of the twain. Tonight was one of those events that brought nearly all the relevant members of the Social Register together. If a meteor hit the Bath & Tennis tonight and immolated the entire Winthrop-Baker wedding reception, society would be reduced to Donald Trump and Paris Hilton.
If Lucy could fool the Winthrops, the Bakers, and their friends—all of whom had been born with entire silver place settings in their mouths—into believing she was one of them, and not an ordinary girl raised above a cocktail lounge in Minnesota, Wyatt would be well on his way to winning the bet with Trip and, more important, writing a successful book. He planned to devote an entire chapter to Lucy’s behavior at tonight’s wedding. And if she failed? If she revealed herself as stainless steel among the sterling silver? The ride would be ove
r. The book would be over. His new feeling of purpose—and the fun he was starting to have with Lucy—would be snuffed out like a candle in a hurricane.
He put out the cigarette on the handpainted Spanish tiles, but stayed out on the terrace to let the smell of smoke dissipate. Lucy was on him constantly about his smoking, so much that he’d cut back to avoid hearing about it. But tonight, with his nerves a jangled mess, he couldn’t resist.
Sufficiently aired, he straightened his bow tie and strode inside into the bedroom wing. “Ready?” he called, knocking on Lucy’s door. He could hear her moving about the room, humming to herself.
“Almost!” She let him in as she slipped on a pearl-and-diamond earring. She was wrapped in a midnight blue silk gown that she’d borrowed from a designer he’d never heard of—someone Eloise had recommended. It was a good recommendation. Lucy’s gleaming hair was pulled up Grace Kelly-style, exposing the unexpectedly delicate nape of her neck. Her dark eyes twinkled with excitement, and the blush of her face gave her a vital glow. Wyatt, who’d spent a lifetime knowing exactly what to say to women, was shocked to find himself speechless.
He stepped back to take her in. This wasn’t the moment to lose his critical eye, his ability to pick out the tiniest flaw—
“I was worried that the dress would drape wrong on the hips. But it’s fine, right?” Lucy said. She moved past him to the bureau, where she dabbed a single drop of rose oil behind each earlobe. She’d once told him that she’d worn the perfume for as long as she could remember. An enchanting, subtle fragrance, it was one of the things the old Lucy Jo had done right.
“You might take off one piece of jewelry.” It wasn’t really necessary, but it felt unnatural to look at her and offer no suggestions for improvement.
“Really? But it’s all so—”
“The well-dressed woman always removes one accessory before leaving the house.”
“I know, Coco Chanel, but can’t we make an exception? It’s all so beautiful.” She glanced down at the art deco diamond bracelet circling her wrist. It was a stunning complement to her chandelier earrings.
“It’s my mother’s rule, too, and she’s right. You don’t want to look like Harry Winston chucked his entire front counter on you.”
“I hardly think—”
“Take something off.”
Lucy looked at him and removed one earring.
“Cute. Take off the bracelet. The earrings are enough. Anything more distracts from your . . . presence.”
Lucy looked at him curiously and slipped off the bracelet.
“There, much better!” Wyatt stepped back again and took her in. She did look gorgeous. Perfect, actually, from the burnish of her hair to the petal-pink toes. He felt an odd stirring that he decided was pride. “Let’s go. The car’s in the drive.”
“My first wedding!” Lucy exclaimed as she hurried down the stairs in front of him. “Eloise says they flew in thousands of orchids from Thailand for the reception. How insane is that?”
“None of your friends back home are married?” Wyatt had been on the wedding circuit for the past decade, at least ten a year.
“A few, but either I couldn’t get home or there was a shotgun involved. Do you think Tamsin will have a long train like Princess Di’s?”
“You never know. I’m sure she’s pulled out all the stops.” They emerged onto the front portico just as the evening light made the fish pond glow gold in front of them. Wyatt looked at her again and smiled, opening the door of his mother’s Mercedes for her. “You look beautiful, by the way.” There, he’d said it. Nothing to be nervous about. He’d been complimenting girls since he was, oh, seven years old.
Lucy looked at him sideways again, as if she weren’t sure what to make of him.
“That was a compliment, Lucy. Say thanks.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said. She slipped gracefully into the passenger seat and looked up at him. Her eyes were luminous. “Sorry, it’s—you just don’t seem like yourself tonight, that’s all.”
He waited for her to pull her dress so it wouldn’t get caught in the door.
“That was a compliment, Wyatt,” she said. “Say thanks.” He laughed, despite himself, and shut the door for her. As they drove past palm trees toward the setting sun, Wyatt felt a new sense of calm. The girl next to him was radiantly lovely, educated in arts and culture, and full of charm and confidence. It was easy, even for him, to forget that he’d made her that way.
“I’d say fifteen, twenty max,” Wyatt said, checking his watch.
Trip eyed the watch lustily, too. “Fifteen at the most. Want to put a thousand on it?”
“Wait, you think the ceremony will only last fifteen minutes?” Lucy whispered. “What gives?” She was genuinely surprised, and not a little disappointed. “They’re not going to, like, plight their troths and exchange their dowries and everything for an hour? I thought that rich people loved their pomp and circumstance.”
“Not as much as they love their gin and tonic.” Wyatt fanned himself with the hand-calligraphied program that each guest had been handed upon entry. The foursome was seated in a back pew of Bethesda-by-the-Sea, a beautiful neo-Gothic church festooned with orchids, white roses, and lilies.
“Waste of flowers for fifteen minutes, if you ask me. I hope they give them to the local hospitals or something.” Lucy swept her eyes over the nave. There were a dozen men in black lurking in the shadows. “I can’t get over all the Secret Service dudes.”
Wyatt followed her gaze. “The ex-presidents, veeps, and heads of state in attendance tonight nearly outnumber the bridesmaids.”
“Ooh! Ooh, they’re starting!” She squeezed Wyatt’s arm with excitement as the organ swelled into Mendelssohn’s Wedding March and seven blonde bridesmaids in lavender silk taffeta began their slow sashay down the aisle. Lucy, who had a full line of bridesmaid dresses drafted on one of her many sketch pads, winced at the sight of these. The color was fine, but the dresses were drowning in bustles and bows that made even the bride’s scrawny older sister look like she had junk in the trunk.
Cornelia, the prettiest in the bunch, was fourth in the lineup—the power hitter, Lucy thought. Like a heat-seeking missile, Cornelia immediately locked her eyes on Wyatt and Lucy, and as she passed by their pew, her posture noticeably stiffened. Lucy quickly removed her hand from Wyatt’s arm.
“How long were you and Cornelia together?” she asked him as the last bridesmaid sauntered by.
“I don’t know. Six months? Maybe seven?” Wyatt kept his eyes trained on the bridal party eddying around the altar.
“Why’d you break up?”
“What? Oh, I don’t know—the usual reasons.”
“No, really. I don’t get it. She’s mythologically beautiful. And you guys totally add up, like Ken and Barbie Rockefeller.”
“Long story,” he murmured, barely moving his lips. He seemed irked by her comment. “This isn’t the time or place.”
She tilted her head. “You know, that’s what you always say when I ask you a personal question.”
“Only when you ask it in the middle of a wedding ceremony, and we’re surrounded by crowds of people.”
As the San Francisco Philharmonic—flown in at the insistence of the Bakers, who were major patrons—began to play Pachelbel’s Canon to signify the entrance of the bride, the enormous double doors of the church opened and the congregation rose. Tamsin began her walk toward the altar. Lucy noticed that she was wearing a simple strand of pearls and matching earrings, but the pearls were huge, as if the oysters had been taking steroids. Her poofy Oscar de la Renta gown, constructed out of what Lucy estimated to be at least fifty yards of heavy silk, swept both edges of the aisle, leaving little room for her father. He practically had to bend sideways at the waist to take her arm.
“Too much dress for her,” Lucy whispered to Eloise after the bride was a safe distance past them. Then she caught herself. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, she looks absolutely beautiful—”
“Just what I was thinking.”
The bridegroom and his best man, both in morning suits, emerged into the chancel as Tamsin and her father approached. “Henry looks drunk,” Trip observed. True enough, the groom did appear to be swaying back and forth. Max Fairchild, the nearest groomsman, discreetly reached out a hand to steady him.
As Tamsin and Henry whipped through their vows and exchanged platinum rings, Lucy tried to ignore Cornelia’s death glare from the row of otherwise beaming bridesmaids. But she couldn’t help noticing that Max Fairchild, whose hand propped up the inebriated groom during the entire ceremony, barely took his eyes off her either.