by Bridie Clark
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 over. 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. "Thi
s 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--"
"She does. She really does. But wouldn't that diaphanous Angel Sanchez gown that Libet wore to New Yorkers for Children--in white, I mean--have been perfect?"
"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.
"You poor thing. Must be so hard seeing Wyatt here with another girl!" Leslie Reynolds, plumpest of the bridesmaids, elbowed for mirror space next to Cornelia in the chintz-rampant ladies' room of the B&T, where the reception was taking place. Leslie and Cornelia had been roommates during their sophomore year at Groton--the same year that everybody became aware of Leslie's crush on their algebra teacher, penchant for day-of-the-week granny panties, and smattering of back hair.
"Why would it be hard?" Cornelia answered smoothly. Leslie, along with some of the other bridesmaids, clearly relished her discomfort, and she refused to fuel their schadenfreude. "Wyatt and I are taking a break. He's seeing other people and so am I. We needed our freedom before making a lifelong commitment." One of the other girls gave her a pitying smile. Haters, she thought. Don't think you'll be invited to the wedding, bitches.
"So who's your date tonight?" Leslie reapplied her lipstick and then blotted it on a piece of tissue.
"Haven't decided yet," Cornelia said.
Leslie didn't seem impressed. "I would absolutely die if I saw Jackson with another girl. Especially one who looks like that Lucy." Jackson was her boyfriend, a towheaded dope.
"You think she's cute?" Cornelia gave a dismissive snort, running a hand through her golden curls. "Wyatt's being patient with me. We're secure in what we have. We don't need to cling desperately to each other." The other bridesmaids kept their faces blank to show they weren't buying it.
"Photo time!" Tamsin's sister poked her head into the ladies' room. The girls grabbed their lavender clutches, and after a final hopeless tug at their ill-fitting dresses, flurried out.
"Les, wait a minute," Cornelia said, still taking in her own reflection. She faced her frenemy with wide eyes. "I have to congratulate you. What are you, now--three months? Four?"
Leslie's mouth opened in protest. Then her hand flew to her belly. "What are you talking about? I'm not--"
"C'mon, sweetie. I spotted your pouch the second I saw you! Smart play. Now Jackson might agree to marry you, right?" She unleashed her most venomous smile. "Don't worry, I won't breathe a word. You know how good I am at keeping a secret."
"We just walked in, Max," said Wyatt slowly. Max had beelined for Lucy no more than thirty seconds after she'd entered the reception on Wyatt's arm. She was flattered, of course, but wished she could have a moment to catch her breath. "Maybe Lucy would like a drink? I know I could use one."
"Thanks, man!" said Max with an earnest grin. "I'll take a Ketel One and soda, if you're heading that way."
Judging by his expression, thought Lucy, that wasn't what Wyatt had in mind. They were interrupted by Binkie Howe, Dottie's friend, who gave Wyatt an affectionate kiss. "I must say, you make the most beautiful couple," she said, addressing Lucy and Wyatt. "It's good to see you happy, Wyatt."
"But they're not a couple!" Max interjected. He seemed oddly authoritative on the matter, thought Lucy. "They're just old friends. Grew up together. The kind of chemistry you'd have with your--how'd you put it, Wyatt?--your sister."
"That's right," said Wyatt.
"Will you all please excuse me for a moment?" Lucy withdrew, then wove her way through the rush of lavender bustles before swinging open the door of the ladies' room. She saw Cornelia chatting with one of the bridesmaids and immediately panicked. Pretending not to recognize her would make matters worse, so Lucy waved her glass of Veuve Clicquot. "Hey, Cornelia!" she said, heading quickly for a stall.
When Cornelia gave no immediate response, the other bridesmaid, a horsey girl with wheat-colored hair, stuck out her hand. "I'm Leslie." Lucy had to approach them more closely in order to shake it. "Leslie Reynolds. I don't think we've met."
"Lucia Ellis . . . Lucy."
Cornelia still hadn't peeled her eyes away from the mirror to acknowledge Lucy's presence, which--even by Dayville standards--showed a complete lack of manners. "Hello, Cornelia." Lucy took the lead. "We met at Dottie Hayes's dinner party."
"Did we? I'm terrible with names. And faces. And there were so many new ones that night." Cornelia said new as if she really meant grossly disfigured. "I adore Dottie, but she'll invite almost anyone she meets into her home."
Lucy actually had to gasp at the blunt-object force of the insult. She had the sinking feeling that Cornelia saw right through the ruse that seemed to be fooling everyone else. There was something in Cornelia's condescending tone that thrust her right back to carrying a tray at Nola Sinclair's show. But then Lucy happened to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The mirror--an unexpected ally. It took her a moment to recognize the elegant, poised young lady staring back at her.
I'm really not the same girl I was just weeks ago, am I? And I don't need to take this crap from anyone. Fighting the urge to kick Cornelia right in her lavender bustle, Lucy smiled at her instead. "I understand," she said. "You must meet so many new people, going out as much as you do, night after night after night."
"Me? What makes you think I go out a lot?" Cornelia looked deeply annoyed.
Bull's-eye. Wyatt had taught her that if there was one thing a socialite couldn't abide, it was being called social. "Well, your photo is in the paper just about every day. It's like you're running for office!" She laughed, making the jab passive-aggressive. Leslie laughed, too, but nervously. She edged toward the door.
"You're too funny," Cornelia said. "Actually, I'm quite the home-body. I love nothing more than a quiet dinner at home with friends."
"Well, then, the Waverly Inn must be your very own dining room!"
Leslie, looking like an accidental spectator at a dogfight, gave a mini-wave before heading out the door. "Good to meet you, Lucy."
"You, too. See you out there."
Cornelia had finally turned to face her. "So how do you know Tamsin?"
"Through Wyatt. Actually, I'd never met her before tonight, so it was generous of her and Henry to include me. How do you know her?"
"We grew up together in Northeast Harbor."
Lucy smiled. "I love the Hamptons."
"Northeast Harbor's not in the Hamptons. Try Maine. I'm surprised you didn't know that, given that the Hayes family has been going
for generations. Didn't you and Wyatt grow up together?"
Lucy's stomach tightened, but she knew Cornelia was the type of social predator who could smell fear. "Our families are close, but we didn't exactly grow up together. I mean, he's much older. Closer to your age than mine." That was for the cab.
"I should go," said Cornelia, lips pursed. "Tamsin expects us to have our pictures taken in these gag-inducing dresses."
"They wouldn't be so bad without that bustle. When you get home, just snip off--"