“We’ll be right behind you,” Dad said, waving from the front door.
Hunter gallantly held the door for me and in a supreme waste of resources two couples boarded two huge limos right next to each other, both headed for the exact same place. Securely seated inside, Hunter finally asked.
“Megan . . . what happened to you?”
“I was carjacked,” I replied drily. Hmm, was that the sauce or the pills talking?
“It must have been gang-related,” he said, excited. “There was an article about this just the other day. The police have noticed a big uptick in carjackings in the metroplex. They said lots of these incidents are younger members out to ‘make their bones.’”
Make their bones? I sighed. It was going to be a long evening.
The thirty-minute trip in to Dallas cemented my initial impression of Hunter Carmichael. Passably smart, too eager with a compliment, and not nearly as worldly as he imagined, he would do well in the sterile if rewarding corporate law world, which was his passion.
In that brief span I learned more than I ever hoped to about his firm, Kemper Dean, the sort that has little to do with practicing law and everything to do with the business of making money. Hunter was already plotting his ascent from slave to master. As he prattled I tried to feign interest, but this was not a strong suit.
Too bad he’s not hot, I thought, gazing out the window at the passing buildings, because if there was ever a night I might be reckless . . .
We exited the freeway, turned on Harry Hines Boulevard, and immediately stopped, becoming the caboose in a train of limos delivering guests to Brookline Country Club. Bumper to bumper we crept along until we finally entered the gates. Built in the forties on the site of an old nursery, Brookline was the most beautiful club in town—an oasis where ancient Italian stone pines towered over long, low brick buildings draped in ivy. In the daytime it was shaded and calm—at night dramatic and cool. Tonight was beyond dramatic.
“Holy cow,” Hunter said. Indeed.
Up ahead swirling klieg lights fired shafts of light deep into the night sky. Under the portico, valets rushed forward to hold the doors as High Society clambered out while photographers, dressed in 1940s-style suits and armed with antique Speed Graphic cameras, swarmed the red carpet. Guests posed, teeth flashed, flashbulbs popped and fizzled. It could have been a movie premiere at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre seventy years earlier.
With just a few cars left in front of us, I realized I would soon be out there under the hot lights. And in this corner . . . Rocky Marciano.
“It’s so exciting.” Hunter leaned forward and gaped through the windshield.
Not the word I would have chosen.
“You know,” he said, turning to me with a toothy smile, “I worked the partners hard to be an escort to this season’s parties.”
“Really? Why?”
“I’m in the market for a wife.”
“Seriously?” I asked, now unable to hide my disdain. “Aren’t you a tad young?”
“I’m twenty-six—lots of people get married at my age. And debutante parties are a terrific way to meet educated, well-bred girls from the best families.”
“My dad talks about cows in much the same way,” I said.
“You know,” he went on, oblivious to my sarcasm, “some of the guys go through the deb announcement like it’s a racing form. Rate the girls on their looks, try to pick the winners, stuff like that. But not me.” He caught my reaction and realized what he’d implied about my own looks, then hastily added, “I’m all about finding someone for the long haul. Getting married is a very big step on the way to making partner at a firm like Kemper Dean—it shows you’re solid, committed.”
I had never met anyone with so many unromantic phrases in hand—racing form? Long haul? Solid? Marriage to Hunter sounded a lot like a life in trucking.
“I see. I don’t suppose love figures into your . . . equation?”
“Love is very important—I’m not insensitive.” The jury’s out on that one, Counselor. “But love isn’t just about fireworks. It can also result from shared values and goals, a common outlook on what’s important in life—don’t you think?”
The limo stopped and a valet opened the door.
“Well, I hate to disappoint you,” I said, “but I’m just here for the sex.”
Eight
In Which Megan Rues Her Decision to Mix Pills and Booze
AS WE APPROACHED THE RED CARPET, HUNTER GAMELY held my hand. Once there we smiled like idiots, and it wasn’t until the cameras came down that I saw the photographers’ puzzled faces.
We walked on and waited while Julia and Simon arrived for their moment. Their pictures would be everything mine were not—gorgeous, timeless, something you’d keep.
Dad and Mom arrived behind them, in his truck. As a sweetener to Mom he had washed it, but it was the only non-limousine in sight, and Mom tried hard not to look mortified stepping out of the cab. From her expression I guessed they had been arguing—no doubt about why Dad had failed to rent a limo for the event. Dad took the valet ticket and led her onto the red carpet, and they stood for pictures. He looked dashing in a black tux, and when she felt the cameras on her she relaxed and I saw for a brief moment the elegant, intelligent woman he had married.
We gathered in front of the doors under a violet deco neon sign flashing Mocambo. The women adjusted their wraps, the men straightened their jackets, and we all gave each other a quick look of reassurance. Mom wilted a bit when she looked at me, but Dad didn’t. He smiled at me, and I smiled back.
“Shall we?” Mom asked of no one in particular. We walked in.
If the outside was fun and glamorous, the inside was beyond belief. Passing through the doors we entered a throwback world to the supper clubs of the 1940s. Cockatoos squawked from banana trees, a gleaming maître d’ waited, and big band music wafted like smoke through the curtains behind him. We checked our coats with a girl dressed in a short silk halter dress with a matching hat perched on her head. In her heels and fishnets, she might have sprung from the pages of Life magazine.
“Welcome, welcome,” the maître d’ crooned, and held back the curtained entrance.
Through those curtains a fantasy world waited, a time warp of such epic proportion it took my breath away. The main ballroom of Brookline, a dull and utilitarian space, had been transformed into “The Mocambo Club.” We all gawked in silent wonder at the period booths, tables, dance floor, bar, bandstand, and a forest of glistening jungle trees. A phalanx of debonair men and sophisticated women jammed the immense room and scores of uniformed waiters delivered Cuba libres, brimming martinis, and champagne. Cigarette girls wended their way through the crowd offering cigars, handmade candy, and fresh yellow roses, while out on the parquet dance floor, couples swayed to a Latin-flavored “Mack the Knife,” pumped out by a thirty-piece band in matching blue tuxedoes.
Gobsmacked by the spectacle, I felt a shard of fear stab me. I knew Aunt Camille and Uncle Dan were loaded—he was a senior partner in a very large law firm—but this was beyond imagination, and one day in the not too distant future we would have to host our own party. I wasn’t sure exactly how much our grandmother had stuffed under the mattress, but if it was less than a quarter million, Dad would need to hock some cows to cover the difference. As he looked around I wondered if he was thinking the same thing.
We joined the receiving line. At the front, Abby, Aunt Camille, and Uncle Dan greeted guests. Abby wore black, elbow-length gloves and a black velvet gown overflowing at the bosom. The dress hugged her in all the right places, and with her long, curly red hair piled on top of her head, she looked extra fabulous. All three displayed that easy gracious manner that simply cannot be faked or bought. It is either encoded in your DNA, or it is not. Sadly, I had missed that sequence.
Until now I had escaped any brouhaha over my appearance by s
taying inside our scrum, but we were moving inexorably forward toward the hosts, approaching full exposure. Mom licked her lips, and her mouth twitched in a half-smile/half-grimace that subtly betrayed her anxiety. Hunter squeezed my hand, and once again I turned my face slightly in an effort, if only for a few seconds more, to delay the reckoning.
And then Ann Foster appeared behind Abby.
Screw me, I thought, and the urge to turn and run gripped me. But boxed in by guests I stumbled forward. Aunt Camille caught sight of Mom, and Abby saw Julia.
“Julia!” she cried, happy to see a truly familiar face. Julia stepped forward and they hugged. Abby embraced Mom.
“Abby, this is amazing. You look gorgeous,” Julia said. Abby beamed.
“Thanks. It was all Mom’s idea.” That made sense. Aunt Camille had unerring judgment, and she had clearly thought hard about the best venue for Abby’s substantial “assets.”
Julia and Mom moved on to Aunt Camille, and Abby searched for me. Behind her, Ann’s eyes narrowed as she sensed something not quite right about my face.
Oh, what the hell, I thought, and stepped forward.
“Abby, congratulations!” Abby’s face dimmed as she stared at my eye.
“Oh my God, Megan. What happened to you?” she asked, truly concerned. I considered the truth, tried a few one-liners out in my head, saw Ann cock her head, hoping for some adequate explanation.
“I, I—well, I’m so sorry, I got—”
“She was carjacked. By a gang.”
I think if I, or really anyone but Hunter, had said it, everyone would have burst out laughing. But he was so ploddingly sincere, so clearly incapable of humor on such a grand scale, that it simply had to be true.
“Did you go to the police?” Abby asked, aghast.
A voice inside my head screamed, Don’t do this! I knew I should reverse course, pronto, and clear up this vulgar, offensive lie. Delay could only lead deeper into the swamp. Still, I couldn’t help myself.
“I . . . not yet,” I stammered.
The wine and Vicodin clouded my judgment. In fact, mixing wine and Vicodin was bad judgment. I probably did have a concussion. Whatever the explanation, in the moment I just smiled and went with it.
Ann Foster didn’t believe it for an instant. She practically had steam blasting from her nostrils, but she wasn’t going to question me publicly.
“Oh you poor girl,” Aunt Camille said as she hugged me.
“If they find them,” Uncle Dan advised, “you can sue for damages. It’s civil as well as criminal.” I nodded, disgusting person that I was.
Fortunately, other guests pressed up behind us, and I shuffled on with some last hugs and final looks of concern. Hunter, my brave defender, had stood by me gallantly, and I sensed him mentally tick off the box for “loyal” on his partnership application.
“I need a drink,” I said. Three or four hundred people filled the room, and it took some doing to squeeze through. We passed the bandstand, now piping out “The Boogie- Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B,” and bellied up to the bar. The bartender winced when he saw my eye.
“Yes, ma’am?” he asked.
“Tequila. And leave the bottle.” He raised his eyebrows— seriously?
“Kidding,” I said. “Just a white wine please.”
“And for you, sir?”
“Chivas and soda.”
Hunter smiled at me. I smiled back, and looked around. Behind the bar hung a large antique mirror. In the mirror, to my right, stood a tall, broad-shouldered guy with wavy brown hair, chocolate eyes, full lips, and a square, dimpled chin. It couldn’t be . . . but it was! My valet, the gorgeous man who’d parked my bike! Now there’s someone I could get reckless with. I followed him in the mirror as he turned and walked away holding two champagnes.
“Thank you so much,” I said to the bartender when he brought my wine, and immediately bolted some down. It was cold and bracing, just what I needed. Still feeling a little reckless I turned, anxious to see where the hottie had landed. Alas, I didn’t have to look far. Directly in front of us Lauren Battle held court, and I sighed as he handed her a champagne.
Lucky her, I thought. I get Hunter, and she gets this tall drink of water as her escort. Ann Foster really has it out for me.
In a floor-length black dress, Lauren was a stunner. Beside her stood another guy—fair-haired, jovial, and they shared a nose, so I figured he had to be her brother. Ashley Two hovered to her right, completely ignoring her date, a douche-bro plucked from a beer commercial. I took another sip of wine and another secret sip of Lauren’s date.
Lauren hadn’t seen us yet, and with the room so packed there were lots of places to hide, but Julia and I were debutantes, two of only seven, and we were expected to mingle. Julia looked over at me and, knowing we couldn’t stand there indefinitely, stepped forward.
“Hello, Lauren,” Julia said.
Lauren coolly surveyed her competition for the spotlight. Their outfits that night told the whole story—Lauren had gone all-out on sex, while Julia parried with pure style. Her gown, pale silk the color of straw, hung straight from her shoulders on wispy straps, then cascaded down her long, slim frame like a waterfall to the floor. It was somehow both incredibly sexy and tastefully demure.
“Julia,” Lauren replied, “what a fantastic gown!”
“Thanks,” Julia said. “Yours is gorgeous too.”
“Oh, thank you!” Lauren said. “This is my brother Zach—Zach, Julia McKnight.” The fair-haired one stepped forward and took Julia’s offered hand.
“Hey,” he said.
“Great to meet you,” she replied, paused, then looked down. “Um, can I have my hand back?”
“In a sec,” he said, still holding on. What a flirt!
I immediately liked this guy, so clearly Lauren’s antithesis. His eyes were bright and mischievous, and his hair had already come unglued in a boyish tumble. Judging from Julia’s reaction, she liked him too.
Zach finally let go of Julia’s hand.
“Sorry, man,” he said to Simon, “but your date is . . . gorgeous. Zach Battle.” They shook hands.
“No worries,” he replied. “Simon Lucas.” He indicated Julia. “We’re cousins.”
“First cousins?” Zach asked hopefully, eyes still on Julia. Simon nodded, Zach smiled broadly, and Julia glowed.
Lauren now turned to Handsome Man.
“And this is Andrew Gage—of the New York Gages.” Beside me, Hunter tensed. His name meant nothing to me, but it clearly meant something to him.
“Andrew,” Julia said, offering her hand.
“So nice to meet you, Julia,” he replied. Andrew Gage stood very still and yet he hummed like a generator—you could feel the energy burning off of him.
Lauren didn’t introduce him as her boyfriend, I thought. Good sign—maybe he could be my escort to one of these things. My heartbeat went from four to six at the thought.
Julia introduced Simon, and they shook hands.
“Lauren, you remember my sister, Megan,” Julia said now. It was time for my close-up.
“Hello, Lauren,” I said, stepping into the group.
Lauren took one look and burst out laughing.
“Oh, Megan.” She tried, not very hard, to cover her delight. “I didn’t think you could possibly outdo your appearance at the tea, but I was wrong—so wrong.”
“Careful, Lauren,” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You should see the other girl.”
“Zing!” Zach said as I leaned in to Lauren for an air kiss. Her eyes crinkled, not sure if I was kidding. I let her ponder and turned to the two men.
“Megan McKnight. Nice to meet you,” I said to Zach.
“You too,” Zach said, and he shook my hand with real feeling. “Does it hurt?”
“I’ve had eight hundred milligram
s of Tylenol, a Vicodin, and half a bottle of wine. Honestly, I don’t feel a thing.”
Zach roared, but Lauren and Ashley Two sneered.
“Classy,” Lauren said.
“Really,” added Ashley Two.
“So it’s Megan,” said Andrew.
“So nice to meet you—again,” I said.
“You’ve met?” Lauren asked, her hackles up.
“Not formally,” replied Andrew.
“But he has seen my favorite sunflower panties,” I said.
His shoulders went stiff.
Lauren pulled him closer.
“It was a misunderstanding,” he said, still looking at me. “I met her outside after I dropped you at the orientation tea. She ripped her dress.”
“Oh,” Lauren said, working hard to find any hidden meaning in all this.
He dropped her off at the tea?
“So you’re twins?” Zach asked Julia.
“Yes,” Julia said.
“Fraternal,” I explained. “She got the pretty egg.” Zach laughed.
All this time Andrew stared at me, and my cheeks burned. I realized my face looked awful, but his scrutiny bordered on rude.
“You’re staring,” I finally said to him.
“Sorry,” he said, looking down quickly. He was incredibly awkward, nothing like he’d been the day we met. Hunter, straining like a dog on a leash, stepped forward.
“Mr. Gage. May I call you Andrew?” Hunter gushed, offering his hand. “Hunter Carmichael. It’s great to meet you.”
“Thank you,” Andrew said distantly.
“I know all about your family. I read your mother’s memoir. The section about your father’s death was absolutely heartbreaking.”
Now the name popped, and the face, and I realized why Hunter was so effusive. Andrew Gage appeared occasionally in weekly magazines under headlines like “America’s Hottest Bachelors” or “Thirty Billionaires under Thirty.” Not that I bought that kind of trash—like most self-respecting people, I thumbed through them in line at the supermarket, then put them back.
The Season Page 7