by July Hall
Sandra managed a smile, but Indira shook her head. “It’s crazy that he sent you all the way out there and then…” She held up her hand when Arnaud opened his mouth. “I know, I know. He’s rich, and they do what they want. But it’s still crazy.”
“Crazy pays the bills and puts us in touch with new contacts.” Arnaud gave Sandra a quick, unreadable look. “Crazy invites us to society weddings.”
“God, that is so weird!” Indira said, slapping her hands on the wooden table. “Look, I’m sorry, but come on. Sandra breaks up with Bradley, but she keeps the job and you guys both get invited to her ex’s uncle’s wedding. I at least want to go on the record as saying this is super weird, even for rich people.”
“Rich people don’t have a monopoly on weird,” Arnaud pointed out. “I went to college with a woman who divorced her husband to marry his brother. Her ex-husband served as best man at the wedding.” Sandra and Indira stared at him with their mouths open. “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
“Uh, yeah,” Sandra said, and then remembered something. “But this is a good time to tell you…maybe don’t mention that I went to Hong Kong at the wedding.”
Arnaud raised his eyebrows.
Sandra added, “Bradley’s mom is, um, a little sensitive about me still working for the family. Just trust me, don’t mention it. I’m sort of hoping to avoid her all night, anyway.”
“But why? She’s always sounded so delightful,” Arnaud said.
Sandra snorted.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I have zero interest in family drama. All I care about is retaining our existing clients and attracting fabulously rich new ones.” He smiled. “It’s not too much to ask, is it?”
“Let’s hope not,” Sandra said feelingly. “With luck, she’ll steer clear of us, too.” Charles had promised as much.
“It’ll be fine,” Indira said. She reached out and patted Sandra’s hand. “And if Mr. Plans can’t make it, you can be the third wheel with me and Bridget on Saturday night. Sound good?”
Sandra had only met Indira’s girlfriend once, but she remembered her as someone who was incredibly enthusiastic about juice cleanses, flaxseed oil, and hemp. Meanwhile, Indira scoured the upper-end consignment stores for Prada and Proenza Schouler and claimed to be allergic to Trader Joe’s. Opposites attracted.
“Sounds great,” she said. Then her phone buzzed with a text. “Excuse me,” she said. “Might be Alexios.” Arnaud waved and leaned in to say something to Indira.
Sandra never learned what it was, because the text was from Charles, not Alexios Mykoulos. And it read: Make sure you’re free Dec 5. Stephen’s moved up the wedding.
Her jaw dropped. The wedding was supposed to be around Christmas—she’d already had the argument with her parents about missing holiday time. Stephen had moved it forward by nearly three weeks? Now it was less than a month away.
“What’s the matter?” Arnaud asked.
“Uh—” Sandra thought fast. “It’s Mr. Magister’s secretary. Violet.”
Indira rolled her eyes. “What does he want now? Wonder Woman’s invisible jet?” Arnaud and Sandra just looked at her. “What? I like Wonder Woman. She’s a positive role model.”
“And hot?” Arnaud said.
“So hot,” Indira replied.
“What does Violet want?” Arnaud asked Sandra.
“Um, she says the wedding’s been moved up, she just wanted to let us both know.” Wait. Damn it, why would that seem so urgent to Violet that she’d text Sandra after work? “She was really excited about the Ru ware thing,” Sandra added, knowing she was babbling. “She was sorry he didn’t get it. I think she’s just being nice and letting us know right away.”
“Okay,” Arnaud said slowly. “So when’s the wedding now?”
Sandra checked the phone again to make sure she hadn’t hallucinated. “December fifth,” she said. “So, um…nearly three weeks away.”
Arnaud and Indira both looked astonished. Then Arnaud sighed. “Maybe that means it’ll be a much smaller affair.”
I’ll have to throw the biggest wedding on the East Coast, Charles had grumbled. “No,” Sandra said, “I doubt it.”
“Wow,” Indira said. She polished off her sangria. “Like I said: batshit crazy.”
* * *
“It’s pure insanity!” Rosalie wailed. “Honestly!”
Stephen folded his arms. “If you don’t want to do it, Rosalie, I won’t ask you to. I know it’s a headache.”
The three of them were having dinner at Charles’s apartment, and Charles was pretty sure his was the biggest headache in the room. That might sound odd to an outsider—it wasn’t his wedding, and he didn’t have to organize it. Theoretically, he should have been the least stressed of them all.
But this meant pushing forward all the legal matters and wrestling with Stephen’s indignation. He was furious because Craig’s family had not reacted well to the news. Charles, though he understood the anger, wasn’t sure what else Stephen could have expected. The Winslowes had never understood how advantageous it was for Craig to be in a relationship with a Magister.
And now Stephen had his dander up about true love and a murderous glint in his eye at the word “prenup.” This could get ugly.
Rosalie scowled. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”
“You’re just going to complain the whole time? Rosalie, really, it’s okay. I’ll hire someone to arrange everything.”
Rosalie gave the impression of a puffer fish swelling out to maximum volume. Charles wondered if it would be wise to have a third glass of wine.
“Of course I’ll arrange it all,” Rosalie snapped. “That’s my job in this family. I’m the arranger. Well” —she sent a slightly sulky glance Charles’s way— “for this sort of thing. God knows I’ve got precious little say in the rest.”
So Bradley’s probation still bothered her. Ridiculous. The boy continued to perform competently at work, so Charles had levied no further sanctions on him. It was the best he could hope for.
Rosalie probably expected Charles to roll his eyes at her or something. Instead, he met her own gaze head on, knowing he must look as cold as a block of ice.
She swallowed and looked back at Stephen. Charles couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry. After the upsets of the weekend, he’d desperately needed a few days’ grace. He was in no mood to sit through another round of squabbling.
Stephen said, “Rosalie, it’ll be fine. Besides, the house will already be decorated for Christmas, so you won’t have to do anything extra for that. And you told me that people have plans for the holidays. This way we know everyone will be in town.”
“Yes.” Rosalie looked up at the ceiling. “Everyone will be in town. We can probably count on a nice, large crowd.”
“The invitations haven’t been sent out yet,” Stephen reminded her. He frowned. “We’re not doing those ‘save-the-date’ things, are we?”
“We can do them tomorrow,” Rosalie said, “and then the invitations the day after.”
“Oh, for—”
“Darling, an invitation from us is a save-the-date,” Rosalie told him. “But why the fifth? Why not the weekend before Christmas? Or even just give it another week, the twelfth…”
Stephen looked a little embarrassed. “Our first date was a year ago on December fifth. We went to Tristan und Isolde at the Met. Come on, Rosebud, it’s romantic, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any time for romance!”
Charles’s BlackBerry pinged. He took it out of his pocket while his siblings continued to argue. Sandra had texted him: We’ll be there. That’s so soon, is everything ok?
He could ask the same of her. Everything had seemed okay when they’d parted on Sunday. She’d kissed him, said she’d see him again soon, thanked him shyly for taking her “all that way.” There was no reason for him to feel so restless.
“So ask someone to the wedding,” Stephen said, sounding impatient. “Or give me a
name and I’ll do it for you. The men of this city would crawl on their hands and knees to escort you.”
They weren’t looking at him. Everything is fine, Charles texted Sandra. Stephen just wants to hurry it along.
Rosalie demanded, “Why would I want to be escorted by a man on his hands and knees? And if I have a date, I won’t exactly be able to stay on top of the actual wedding.”
“You should have a date if you want one,” Stephen said firmly. “And so should Charles. The Magister siblings have been lone wolves for far too long. It’s high time we all had some fun!”
Charles immediately poured himself that third glass. Rosalie said, “God, people in love are just—Stephen, of course I’m happy for you, I truly am, but stop projecting.”
“I’m not projecting,” Stephen said. “We’re all in the prime of our lives.”
Rosalie rolled her eyes.
“What? We are,” Stephen said. “We’re vital, we’re smart, we’re rich as hell…”
Charles’s phone pinged again. He glanced down at it as he raised his wineglass to his lips.
Is Craig knocked up? Sandra asked.
Pinot Noir got all over his shirt. “Shit,” Charles hissed, and shoved his phone in his pocket, trying not to laugh while Stephen and Rosalie stopped arguing to stare at him.
“Is everything all right?” Stephen asked, wide-eyed.
“Of course it is.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth to hide his grin. “My hand just slipped.” He rose to his feet and looked down at the red stain soaking into the pale blue fabric. “Excuse me, I’d better take this off.”
He headed out of the dining room. “My maid does a divine job with salt scrubs,” Rosalie called after him. “Tell Emilia!”
As Charles fled the scene, he dimly heard Stephen say, “You know who ought to take care of that? He needs…”
Christ. Rosalie was right. Their brother was out of control.
Charles changed in his bedroom. As he pulled a fresh shirt from the drawer, he couldn’t help glancing at Sandra’s black silk robe hanging next to his own bathrobe. Warmth spread through his chest. That was a domestic touch he hadn’t expected. There were two closets, but she’d chosen his. And she’d left a few toiletries in the other bathroom.
She’d said, when they’d begun, that she didn’t want to invade his space when he was so used to having it all to himself. Maybe she wouldn’t think so anymore, now that she’d seen how much space he actually had.
Damn it. He didn’t want her to live with her sister in Brooklyn. He didn’t want to set her up in her own place, either. He wanted—
Knowing himself for a fool, Charles made sure his shirt was tucked in neatly and returned to the dining room. Halfway there, he paused and took out his phone.
Keep it quiet, he texted Sandra. They’re only telling the family right now.
Within seconds, she replied. Are they going to name it after you?
Only if it’s a girl.
omg lol
If they were at “omg lol,” then he’d done his job. Charles chuckled, silenced his phone, and returned to join his siblings.
By the time he got back to the table, Rosalie had taken her tablet out of her Birkin bag, and she and Stephen were hunched over it in apparent détente. “…sure she’ll come?” Rosalie was asking.
“I don’t see why not,” Stephen said. “They got along well, and I’d like to see her again. We could—”
Charles’s footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor. Stephen and Rosalie fell suspiciously silent.
Charles crossed his arms. “Josephine Banks?” he asked.
“Everything’s not always about you,” Stephen said. Charles just looked at him. Stephen sighed, “Yes.”
“I am not interested in resuming anything with Josephine.” Charles sat down again and reached for his wineglass. He’d only spilled about half its contents. “Invite her if you want, but that’s how it is. I’d hate for her to come on false pretenses.”
“Oh, of course,” Stephen said.
“Absolutely,” Rosalie agreed, swiping her fingertips over the touchscreen. “But you won’t mind if I seat her at our table? I’ve always liked her—”
“Rosalie—”
“—and I’m going to want an intelligent woman to talk to for once, especially since Craig’s horrible sister is coming.”
“His horrible sister is the only one who’s supporting him,” Stephen said gently. “She gets a place of honor.”
Rosalie shrugged in irritation. “Then his horrible sister is the only one with a trace of common sense. It still doesn’t mean I want to talk to her about her Pomeranians. Charles, you just have to sit next to Josephine. You don’t have to propose marriage to her.”
“In fact, please don’t,” Stephen added.
“She’ll see right through you both,” Charles pointed out.
They looked unrepentant. “Who else am I supposed to sit with?” Rosalie asked. “Sandra Dane?” She rolled her eyes. “Wouldn’t that make them all laugh.”
Charles set his wineglass back down before he could spill the other half. He fought down a brief surge of nausea. Alone in his room, he could fool himself and imagine Sandra as part of his public life. One catty remark from his sister told him otherwise.
“Sandra’s not bad,” Stephen argued. “Given the circumstances, I’d say she’s quite good.”
“Oh yes, a good walking reproach to my son,” Rosalie said. “Just swanning around our house, reminding him to watch his step, that nothing he does will ever be enough.”
“Is that what he tells you?” Charles asked.
“It’s what he knows is true,” Rosalie growled. Charles couldn’t deny it. Your nephew is your only heir, Zhou had taunted. “Like she was such a prize to begin with. And he only has nice things to say about her! Do you need proof he’s sorry? There’s your proof.” Her lips curled in disgust. “At least when I put her at a back table, she won’t stick out like a sore, middle-class thumb.”
“Rosalie,” Charles and Stephen snapped at the same time and then exchanged surprised looks.
Rosalie blinked at them both, then lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Be democratic all you want, it doesn’t change anything. She’s not one of us, and she never would have been. I’m glad she and Bradley aren’t together anymore.”
Stephen gave Charles a tired look. He must have regretted his impulsive gesture a hundred times by now. “I think we can all agree on that.”
“Definitely,” Charles said, imagining Sandra in her black silk robe, looking like a queen. She’d stick out like a sore thumb, all right. Surrounded by the artifice of American nobility—and some European actual nobility—her natural grace would draw attention. As would her poise.
It was a defense mechanism, he suspected. She took refuge in her manners. The girl who melted in his arms was more vulnerable than the one who donned a business suit and made introductions. She’d remained perfectly composed, even in front of a man who gave her the creeps.
He looked up at the chandelier while Stephen and Rosalie bent back over the tablet. The world was unfair, he knew. The women at this wedding would be draped in couture and family jewels, every bit of them waxed and polished and plucked. He had no doubt that Sandra would do her best with what she had. But Rosalie was correct: people would look at her and see an off-the-rack dress, plus modest jewelry. A string of pearls, maybe. Or the emerald barrette, which really wasn’t all that much—but she’d acted like he’d given her the Hope Diamond, so it might be the nicest thing she owned.
Meanwhile, Rosalie would put Mother’s rubies around her neck, and Josephine would probably trot out her famous sapphires. They’d wear Chanel or Dior, and so would all the other women. There would be furs, there would be gold, there would be a diamond tiara if Alice Fortescue showed up.
Yes, the world was unfair. But Charles couldn’t do what he was thinking of. It would be stupid, it would be pointless, and Sandra would only get upset. He couldn’t.
&n
bsp; Charles tuned back in to his siblings’ conversation just in time to hear Stephen say, “Well, you know you’ll look ravishing.”
“I’m too old to look ravishing.” But Rosalie seemed pleased. “Dearest, it’s your wedding, of course I’m going to outshine you.”
Stephen laughed.
“I’ll be dripping with rubies,” she continued. “If we have to do this fast, we’ll do it with style. Make it a royal occasion.”
“That’s the way!” Stephen looked delighted and squeezed their sister’s hand.
Rosalie turned her most dazzling smile on Charles. “Between me and Josephine, the grooms will be totally eclipsed.”
“I have no doubt,” Charles said, glad that they couldn’t know about the sour taste in his mouth.
“So will everyone else,” Rosalie added. “So much for her.” She smiled at Stephen, too. “I’ll behave myself, never fear.”
“Good,” Stephen said. “I won’t behave myself at all. I’m going to kiss my husband and make that bigoted bastard Pierce Loemann squirm in his seat. I’m going to dance and be obnoxiously happy.”
“Oh!” Rosalie said. “The music! Be thinking about that. Who can we possibly get at this hour?”
“Oh…well, I was thinking…”
Rosalie in rubies, and Sandra in…nothing that could compare. No, Charles thought, he couldn’t. He really couldn’t.
He sat through twenty more minutes of wedding planning, offering very little input, before he cleared his throat and looked at his watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. “I hate to close the festivities,” he said, “but it’s getting late, and Stephen, you and I still need to discuss—”
“The stag party,” Rosalie said. “I agree.”
“The—?” Shit. Of course he should have thought of that. What sort of older brother wouldn’t? This was what happened when he got distracted. Embarrassed, he glanced at Stephen. “Ah. Yes, of course we do. Is there anywhere in particular you want to have it?”
Rosalie and Stephen looked at him and exchanged a look with each other.