by Bridie Clark
"I believe she's in the library, sir," Dottie heard Graciela confess.
"There you are!" Wyatt yelled, rushing in and immediately sucking all the tranquillity out. "This place always had too many goddamn rooms." His cheeks were flushed from the wintry evening, and as often, Dottie was taken aback by how much he looked like her late husband. They had the same thick shock of dark hair, the same tall, athletic build, and the same penetrating blue-gray eyes. But appearance was where the similarity ended. For as much as she loved her son, Dottie hadn't been lying to Cornelia about her assessment of Wyatt's shortcomings. Her son had been lost for years now, squandering his considerable talents by chasing the next good time, running through girlfriends. If she thought about it too much, it gave Dottie a deep ache. And so she forced herself not to think about it. She made herself accept that her son--her bright, handsome, brimming-with-potential only son--was more or less a flash in the pan. Maybe she'd failed Wyatt as a mother. In any case, it was too late. He was now close to forty and set in his ways.
"You've found me," Dottie sighed. "You're early. Scotch?"
"I'll help myself in a minute. I want to talk to you."
"That's nice," Dottie said. "Your absence at Christmas might have suggested otherwise." She'd been hurt that he hadn't made it down to Florida, even when she offered to fly him down private. Wyatt was all the family she had, if you didn't count her needle-nosed sister Lydia, a joyless woman who'd devoted her life to raising English springer spaniels and who refused to travel. "Well, it's good that you're here. Maybe I can convince you to behave yourself this evening. I'm not in the mood to be embarrassed."
"What makes you think I'll embarrass you?"
"Thirty-seven years of experience. You know your manners are atrocious, and it's a reflection on the woman who raised you."
"It can't be Margaret's fault entirely."
Dottie just rolled her eyes.
He sat down on the couch and rested his hand-sewn John Lobb shoes on the coffee table. "So I've got news. Big news. Harvard University Press is going to publish my first book. Alfred Kipling's going to edit it himself. I just signed the contracts."
Dottie gasped. "Wyatt, dear, that's wonderful!" Could it be true? Dottie hoped he was serious this time, that he'd found some purpose. It made her Christmas dinner for one seem like a worthwhile sacrifice. "Well, tell me, what's the topic?"
"It's an anthropological experiment, one that studies the influence of nature and nurture on social status. I'm chronicling the development of a new alpha female. It's been occupying my every waking thought. And if my experiment works, it should make for a groundbreaking book."
"Are you studying chimps again? Apes?"
"Humans. You know I've long been intrigued by how closely our behavior mirrors that of our closest primate relatives. Anyway, you'll get to meet her in a few minutes," Wyatt answered. "She's coming with Trip and Eloise."
"Her?" Now Dottie's interest turned to concern. "And she's coming to my dinner party? I'll have to tell Graciela right away."
"I'll tell her. I think you'll like Lucy. She's wasn't born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but she's learned pretty fast which silver fork to use. She has a certain . . . spirit."
Spirit, coming from her son, could mean a wide range of dinner party-disruptive things. "This is so typical of you, Wyatt. Please tell me she wasn't raised by wolves."
"No, no. By a single mother, blue collar, in Minnesota. You have nothing to worry about. I've been grooming the girl for weeks, and it seems to be sticking. Of course, we can't know for sure whether she's adapted to her new role until she's thrown into a social gathering."
Dottie felt one of her headaches coming on. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but I do know that you've picked the worst night possible. An anthropological experiment at my dinner party--honestly, Wyatt! For starters, where will I put her?"
"Next to me," Wyatt suggested. "That way I can keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn't drink from the finger bowl or try to clear her own plate."
Dottie ran through the new arrangement quickly in her head. She had a gift for seating tables that bordered on mathematical genius. "Fine, then. What's her name?" she asked.
"Lucy Ellis. It won't be bad, I promise. I've taught her the social graces--"
"How can a man without social graces possibly teach them? You, who recently told my friend Millicent she resembled her French pug?"
Wyatt just laughed. "I'll admit that wasn't my finest moment, but there've been studies showing that after a period of sustained proximity, humans and their pets--"
A maid in a blue uniform appeared in the doorway. "Guests, Mrs. Hayes."
"Thank you, Graciela. Will you ask Pammy to write out a place card for Lucy Ellis? She's to sit on Wyatt's right. Move Mimi Rutherford-Shaw between Bancroft Stevens and Roger Rosenthal. Thank God we happened to have a spare man at the table."
Wyatt rose with his mother. "Lucy doesn't know about the book, yet. And it's essential that nobody know the truth about her. My career hangs in the balance."
"Of course I won't say anything about your strange experiment. The poor girl. You think I need to be told not to embarrass one of my guests?"
"I appreciate your support, Mother."
"I'm not sure you have it, darling." Dottie let out a loud sigh. She had never been able to say no to her son, which explained a great deal.
"Martha, hello!" Wyatt said, leaning in to her cloud of Amarige to give the dour dowager a kiss. Martha Fairchild looked momentarily surprised to see him--he rarely made appearances at his mother's dinners--but quickly reset her expression to its customary jaded disinterest. Behind her stood Max and Fernanda, who struck Wyatt as being more overgrown children than adults. Max was exhibit A for the argument that generations of blue-blood inbreeding deoxygenated the bloodstream. And seeing the dark and shifty-eyed Fernanda, Wyatt was instantly on his guard. Fernanda, he knew, was enthralled by Cornelia, who had the cash and pizzazz that Fernanda furiously longed for. If he wasn't careful, she would report back to Cornelia every detail of the evening, including news of the tall, striking, and unfamiliar woman sitting at Wyatt's side. Wyatt wanted no publicity from tonight. It was best to keep Lucy's debut low-key, the way you took a new sailboat around the harbor before you raced her.
"So you're back from . . . where were you, again?" Fernanda asked.
"I was here." He knew she was fishing for information, so gave little.
"Well, we missed you at the Red Cross Ball. It was epic this year."
"I'm sure," Wyatt said. He glanced over Fernanda's bony shoulder to see if Trip, Eloise, and Lucy had arrived yet. Now that the high priests and priestesses of the social set had filled his mother's drawing room, Wyatt couldn't help but feel a little nervous about whether his protegee would sink or swim in these perilous waters. She was still so damned unpredictable.
With most of New York society away for the holidays, he'd risked taking her out to restaurants, where they'd dined unseen. Two nights ago they'd gone to Amaranth with Trip and Eloise. Wyatt had looked across the table at the refined, lovely young woman opposite him, holding her own in a conversation about an exhibition of Rembrandt drawings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which they had toured earlier in the day. Hours of walking with a Social Register on top of her head had cured Lucy of her heavy stride; she now moved as if she weren't ashamed of her height, and she didn't bend into an osteoporotic crouch to converse with Trip, who came up to her chin. The endless, grating phonetics lessons had rid her speech of thoughtless um's and that wide a that had made Wyatt resolve never to set foot on the Minnesota tundra.
Thanks to her daily double workouts, she'd slimmed down almost immediately, revealing a firm but womanly body. She would never be the willowy waif, but now she was slender and athletic, looking as though she'd spent Saturdays playing field hockey at Wellesley. She had a waist now, and when Wyatt recently had popped his head in on one of her workout sessions, he had no choice but to admire the lon
g, lean line of her thighs. Thanks to her healthy eating, her exercise regimen, and weekly facials, her skin had a new glow. She knew what to talk about at a dinner party, which was essentially nothing, and she knew how to talk about it, which was with a demure disinterest. Equally important, she knew where she was supposed to come from: they'd rehearsed the details of her background so thoroughly that she'd started to take a certain pride in her family's imaginary timber fortune.
Still, the girl was a wild card. Just when he'd start to relax--poof !--ol' Lucy Jo would be back, butchering one of the French phrases he'd taught her to pepper into conversation, blowing her nose at the table, bringing up how much things cost. She still smiled too much and too indiscriminately for his liking, wore yoga pants and sneakers when she had no intention of working out, and used words like "classy" and "fancy." That same night at Amaranth, when he'd caught her checking her teeth in the reflection of a butter knife, Wyatt had seen the prospect of book publication go egg-shaped before his eyes. Without a triumphant ending, Wyatt knew the book would fall flat. Not to mention, he'd lose his bet with Trip--his watch and his pride. Tonight, he knew, could be the first victory in his Lucy experiment, or it could be a decisive failure.
"Wyatt?" Fernanda asked, looking a little peeved. "I asked if you were going to Tamsin and Henry's wedding?"
"Sorry," he said. "I'm a little distracted."
Fernanda laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. "No, I completely understand. You're nervous about seeing Cornelia for the first time since--"
The loud hum of chitchat all around them seemed to fall silent. "What are you talking about?" Wyatt sputtered, causing Fernanda to fall back on her heels. "Cornelia's not coming tonight!"
"What, didn't your mother tell you?"
"Will you excuse me for a moment?" Wyatt fixed his mother with a death glare. She well knew the two of them had split; she'd even approved of the breakup. What could she possibly have been thinking? Cornelia's presence tonight was more than a nuisance; it was a potential disaster. Lucy wasn't ready for sniper fire yet. Wyatt stepped back from Fernanda so fast he ground his heel into Max's loafer, and then charged across the drawing room, pulling his mother out of a conversation with the Dutch ceramics collector Lars van Sever and his wife.
"How could you invite Cornelia into your home without telling me?" he hissed. "I thought we were on the same page about her."
"We were. We are. The girl is a social juggernaut. Martha Fairchild called to see if she could come, and wouldn't give up even when I told her the table was already too full. Martha even offered to stay home herself so Cornelia could be here! Last time I invite the Fairchilds--live and learn. But I couldn't think of a graceful way to say no."
"Next time, how about no?"
Dottie laid her hand on Wyatt's arm and looked at her son with maternal concern. "I've never seen you this nervous. Do you care for this Lucy girl?"
Wyatt looked up to see Trip and Eloise in the doorway, with Lucy behind them, her dark hair gleaming against the oak woodwork. "She just walked in!" he exclaimed, feeling a fresh surge of panic. "Too late. I'll just have to keep them separated as much as I can." He took an urgent sip of his scotch. "And to answer your question, I care for my book. A premature encounter with Cornelia could jeopardize everything Lucy and I are working toward."
Dottie Hayes followed her son's gaze. Two steps behind Trip and Eloise, a statuesque young woman scanned the room with large, dark eyes. She wore a deep aubergine dress, belted at the waist to create a feminine silhouette. Her dark brown hair was smooth as a sheet of silk, and a saltwater pearl dropped off each earlobe. Complemented by a fabulous pair of Roger Vivier shoes, her legs looked about a mile long.
She was one of the most beautiful young women Dottie Hayes had ever seen.
"The book, of course," she said to her son.
The stern-faced ancestral portraits in Dottie's gargantuan drawing room glared at Lucy, reminding her how many fathoms she was out of her depth. If this classy crew knew who she really was, she'd be relegated to passing out champagne glasses. It had happened before.
She shivered and looked doubtfully at the other guests. It wasn't just that the crowd was impeccably dressed, although that they were. The men looked straight off Savile Row, their suits precisely tailored around the shoulders but not cinched and show-offy around the body, their silk neckties subdued but gleaming. But the women were the main attraction, turned out in gorgeous cocktail frocks and one-of-a-kind bejeweled shoes. Given the heady aura of opulence, the five-carat diamonds flashing from most earlobes managed to seem understated. Lucy's eyes fell on one older woman whose silvery hair and three strands of good pearls offset her dark velvet jacket as she stood next to a younger brunette with Maria Shriver cheekbones. The two of them looked vaguely familiar, but then the rich and powerful were New York's particular genre of celebrity.
These people have nothing to prove, Lucy thought. It struck her at that moment, after weeks of training, that she had finally grasped the essential difference between old and new money.
Like a toddler clutching her mother's skirt, Lucy stayed a cautious step behind Eloise as they hello-ed their way into Dottie's drawing room. Thank God for Eloise--since their day at the spa, her no-nonsense sweetness had been a refuge for Lucy against the tempests and squalls of Wyatt's demands. The two women had bonded quickly. Eloise had savvy and style, but was also more openhearted than Lucy had expected. Lucy had shared the true story of her life, from the discomforts of growing up the daughter of Rita the celebrity-addicted nail artist to her struggles to make it in Manhattan, and Eloise in turn had confided her frustrations with Trip, whom she adored but who seemed less likely to propose to her than was His Eminence the Cardinal of New York. If Eloise weren't here tonight, Lucy knew she would collapse into a little pile of purple silk--especially now that she glimpsed Wyatt's mother, so regal that she made Queen Elizabeth look like Sharon Osbourne. Lucy recognized her from the family photos Wyatt had on the walls of his study.
"Try to relax," Eloise whispered, giving Lucy a warm smile. "Everyone will love you, I promise. You have nothing to worry about."
Wyatt's mother came right up to greet them. "Eloise, your dress is marvelous." She drew out her r's. "You know exactly what works."
Eloise smiled at her. "Thanks, Dottie. This is our friend Lucy Ellis."
"A pleasure to meet you," said Dottie, extending her hand. Her spun-white hair was cut into an elegant, understated bob, reminding Lucy of a meringue. "I'm Wyatt's mother."
"Thank you very much for including me, Mrs. Hayes," Lucy said, shaking her hand stiffly. She desperately wished she could be as laid-back as Eloise; instead she sounded as if she were reading from a teleprompter. "Your home is, um, magnificent." There was that um again. She was glad Wyatt wasn't within earshot.
"Call me Dottie, please. That's very kind of you. It's in the process of being redecorated, so, you know, it's a bit of a mess at the moment."
Lucy scanned the room. Not so much as an Hermes ashtray out of place. "If this qualifies as a mess, I'd hate for you to see my closet!"
Dottie laughed politely. "What will you have to drink, dear?"
"Oh, whatever's easy."
"Anything's easy," Dottie answered.
Judging by the flanks of waitstaff poised to serve, Lucy guessed that was true. "Well, um, perhaps a Singapore sling?" She'd blurted out the first fancy, umbrella-adorned drink that came into her head, but judging by her hostess's uncomfortable reaction, she'd blurted wrong.
"A Singapore sling?" Dottie frowned. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure--"
"Or maybe some champagne?" Eloise suggested.
"Oh, yes, that would be perfect," Lucy said, relieved. "I'd love some champagne, if you have it." She was so nervous she was making basic blunders. Champagne was the official drink of socialites, duh! Had Nola's party taught her nothing? But Wyatt hadn't told her what to order during the cocktail portion of the evening. What else had he neglected to mention?
"Of co
urse. The server will be right back with it. Excuse me a moment--I see the mayor and his fiancee." Dottie swept away.
"I don't belong here." Lucy suddenly felt overwhelmed. "Everyone keeps looking at me. They all look so perfect. So expensive. So--"
"And you don't?" Eloise subtly directed her attention to the large antique mirror on the wall next to them. "People are looking at you because you're beautiful. But listen, I do know how you feel. As a crowd, they can be a bit imposing. There are good people mixed in. Oh, like Mimi Rutherford-Shaw. You'll like her, I promise." She waved at a mammiferous blonde in pink Pucci. Everyone seemed to adore Mimi, Lucy immediately noticed, and not just because her proximity made them seem thinner. Even in this stuffy environment, she appeared to be having the time of her life.
"El!" Mimi came barreling over.
"Mimi, you've got to meet my friend Lucy."
"Aren't you the most gorgeous thing?" said Mimi, kissing Lucy hello. Wyatt had given Lucy the rundown on Mimi, as he had on many of the usual suspects. She was a proud southern belle whose down-home drawl had grown more pronounced the longer she lived in New York City. By now most people could hardly make out what she was saying. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. Where're you from, doll?"