We still had a couple of hours until sunset, but all the lights in the house were blazing, and a harried-looking woman wearing a headset kept rushing in and out of the back door, surveying the progress in the yard and barking orders to various sweaty men who were hoisting boxes, pushing hand trucks, handling armloads of red and white flowers, and doing a seemingly endless series of other tasks involving color-coordinated objects. I caught a good look at the woman’s face and realized that I actually knew who she was—this was Greta Moriarity, my mother’s favorite party planner (though, of course, Anne Rye never liked to publicize the fact that she used a party planner—she liked people to think she did everything herself). I’d met Greta a few times over the years, and she had always vaguely terrified me. Now, as she screamed at a large man carrying a giant red-and-white vase, I could see that she terrified other people, too.
Conspicuously missing from this whole scene was my neighbor, the gorgeous angelic creature I’d seen the previous evening. It seemed as if this horde of caterers, construction workers, carnival barkers, and—were those guys in dark suits security guards? Why yes, they were—other employees had just spontaneously descended upon the castle-like house and elaborate grounds next door and magically made this spectacle come to life. I was sure they’d been at work outside for the duration of the seven hours I’d been asleep—and I had a feeling Greta had been directing activities inside the house since before I woke up in the morning. Suddenly I heard the door to the garage slam. My mother’s shrill voice called out, “Naomi!”
She swept into the kitchen, loaded down with bags from Marc Jacobs and Calypso and Citarella, and stared at me with disdain.
“You haven’t changed?” she demanded.
“Wait, I haven’t?” I shrieked, staring at myself in mock shock. I couldn’t help it.
“That’s disgusting,” she said, huffing around the kitchen and noisily unpacking fancy cheeses and jars of expensive tapenade. “That’s really disgusting. You haven’t even showered today, have you?”
“Just been really focused on studying,” I lied.
“Well, if you haven’t noticed, there’s an absolute circus unfolding next door,” she said. “I doubt we’re going to get much peace and quiet tonight. I didn’t think anything could be worse than those Saudis, but this girl next door is clearly about as gauche as it gets.”
I edged out of the kitchen and toward the front staircase in order to beat a hasty retreat, but stopped when I noticed something affixed to the front door. It was a little pink envelope. I grabbed it quickly and went back into the kitchen.
“Hey, Mom,” I said. “Somebody left this for you.” I gave it to her, and she stared at it with a furrowed brow. (Well, her brow would’ve been furrowed if it hadn’t been so loaded with Botox.)
“But it’s got your name on it, Naomi,” she said, a touch of wonder in her voice as she handed it back to me. “And look at that gorgeous handwriting.”
I looked. She was right. There on the front of the pale pink envelope was my name in the most exquisite cursive. It looked as if the writer had used a calligraphy pen, but the handwriting was so lovely that I wondered if it had been done professionally. Every Christmas, my mother throws an eggnog soiree at her big Manhattan apartment, and she always hires this fancy stationer, Dolores Weathers, to address the invitations and fill out the place cards. The writing on this pink envelope was even prettier than anything Dolores had ever cooked up.
My mother’s eyes lit up. “Perhaps Delilah is having a party!” she said excitedly. “I’d think Merilee would’ve mentioned it to me—we met up for lunch today, it was wonderful—but it’s possible she wanted it to be a lovely surprise for you.” I was intrigued, for sure. I tore open the envelope (“You’re ripping it up!” my mother scolded me. “This might be something you want to keep!”) and unfolded the white note inside. It was a substantial piece of card stock, the sort of thing one might print a wedding invite on, and it contained the same elaborate handwriting:
Dear Naomi:
Hello, love! We’ve never met, but I’d love to remedy that situation by welcoming you to my carnival party this evening. You’re welcome to bring anyone you like. The party begins at 7 and should conclude around 1. Please give your mother my apologies for any inconvenience it may cause her—I’m afraid I’ve been a terrible neighbor and haven’t found the time to introduce myself yet. I’ll admit, I’m a bit shy! Rather appropriate for a blogger, I should think. Anyway, I admire her so much and hope to meet her in person soon. And I really hope to make your acquaintance tonight. Come ride the Ferris wheel—it’s going to be so beautiful under the moon.
Best regards,
Jacinta Trimalchio
I scanned down to the bottom of the page and read the small print there: ARE YOU WANTED? THEWANTED.COM.
“Oh, wow,” I said. “This is that girl.”
“What girl?” my mother asked eagerly, snatching the invitation from my hand. She scanned it quickly, her mouth curving up into a smile when she read the part about how much Jacinta admired her. Then she seemed to notice what was at the end of the note.
“TheWanted.com!” she gasped. “Isn’t that the online Internet website Delilah was talking about?”
“Yes,” I said. “I am pretty sure that is the online internet website Delilah was talking about.”
My mother’s eyes lit up. “Ooh,” she said. “Let’s look at it, darling. This girl is famous!” I could tell any resentment she held toward the new neighbor was gone forever.
I popped open my laptop and went to TheWanted.com. The pink background matched the pink envelope, and the header displayed “The Wanted” in Jacinta’s distinctive handwriting. The site was designed with a simple elegance—no bells and whistles, no distracting pop-up ads (God, I hate those). The navigation bar below the header displayed the categories: Parties, Fashion, Beauty, Models, and What’s Jacinta Wearing? I clicked on the last category and brought up a seemingly endless page of daily posts of Jacinta from the neck down.
“She’s so thin,” my mother said admiringly. “Is she a model?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, scrolling through the entries. “But she sure seems to have a lot of clothes.” I paused on one post from the previous October entitled “Birthday Suit.” In the photo, Jacinta’s lithe frame was outfitted in a lavender boucle pantsuit with bright gold buttons down the front of the jacket and a bold, showy white lace ruffle encircling her long, swan-like neck. The hem of the pants stopped above her ankles. She wore lavender-and-white saddle shoes and lacy white ankle socks. It was one of those outfits that was completely weird and would’ve gotten her laughed out of school if she’d tried it in Chicago, but it made sense on some fancy style blog. The post read:
As if I even need to tell you this is Vivienne Westwood! The asymmetrical collar should’ve given it away, loves. The best 18th birthday present I could’ve asked for was a new box of Viv for—and you know I’ll always be honest with you about this—free, free, free! So yes, they wanted me to blog about it, and yes, I’m doing it, but only because it is actually this fabulous. For those of you who’ve been accusing me of sporting too many high-fashion freebies lately: I thrifted the shoes, socks, and the blouse with the incredible lace collar. And you can’t see my makeup (anonymity is the spice of blogging, angel faces), but it’s cheapy-cheap stuff from the drugstore. Just so you know I’m still your down-to-earth fashionista! All my love, Jacinta.
And there, at the bottom, was her beautiful signature.
“I like what she’s doing,” my mother said a little dreamily. “Her branding is fantastic. A mix of high-end and DIY. Aspirational yet accessible. Fresh.” I could tell my mother was going into one of her marketing term fits, when she stops speaking like a human and starts spouting terms that she and her business associates throw around.
“And of course,” Mom added, “I love the lavender. It’s not my style, but it’s very young and now. Oh, darling, I’m so thrilled she’s invited you to her pa
rty! You are going, aren’t you?” Through the kitchen window behind her, the Ferris wheel suddenly lit up with a dazzling panoply of twinkling white lights. It seemed party time was drawing nigh.
Maybe it was the almost pathetic look of hope in my mother’s expression. Maybe it was my natural curiosity about this fabu fashion goddess next door. More likely it was the fact that I’ve always loved carnivals. Whatever the reason, I found myself saying, “You know what? I am gonna go.” My mother followed me upstairs, jabbering all the way.
“Now, don’t wear all black like you did yesterday,” she said. “My God, you looked like you were going to a punk-rock funeral. Let me see what you’ve packed.” Uneasily, I let her go through my suitcase. As she combed through T-shirt after T-shirt, she heaved several disappointed sighs in a row.
“Do you possess anything that doesn’t have a cartoon character, a band, or a snotty saying on the front?” she asked, holding up one of my favorites, a green shirt that read, “I’m a big fan of your work.”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I said.
She opened her eyes wide and met my gaze with a steely determination. “I knew something like this would come up eventually,” she said, straining to remain calm. “So you know what I did, dear? I stocked up on some Marc Jacobs basics, just for you.”
I groaned. “I hate when you shop for me,” I said. “It’s for your own good,” she called over her shoulder as she rushed downstairs to get the bags. “You dress like you’re mentally unstable. You’re seventeen years old, Naomi. It’s time to start dressing like a woman, not an angry child.” In a flash, she was back upstairs with her bags.
“At least it’s not Lilly Pulitzer,” I said, and my mother blanched. Lilly Pulitzer dresses look like the most boring person in the world barfed on some fabric and fashioned it into a frock. When I was a kid, my mother was a Lilly Pulitzer devotee until some socialite whose event she was catering told her she ought to change into her real dress before the guests arrived. (I’m not kidding—this actually happened.) Ever since then, Mom has hated Lilly Pulitzer with an all-consuming passion.
“Watch your mouth,” she said, and for a moment her Chicago accent came out. Then she pulled out a dress and showed it to me.
I had to admit, it was actually nice. Marc Jacobs does good stuff that isn’t too flashy and embarrassing but still manages to be pretty. My mother had selected a color-blocked twill sheath dress that was dark blue on top and green from the waist down. It had an empire waist, which looks fine on me because I’ve got no curves to speak of. The straight up-and-down thing suits me just perfectly.
“How much was it?” I asked suspiciously.
“You are your father’s daughter,” she said with a sigh, rolling her eyes. “Four hundred.”
“For that?” I was incredulous. “I mean, it’s pretty, but it’s so simple. It probably cost seventy-five cents to make. And the three-year-old in Indonesia who sewed it probably made, like, a nickel.”
“It’s perfect,” my mother said. “And you’re going to wear it.”
Of course, then I wanted to wear literally anything but the dress. My mother’s tone made me feel for a moment I’d actually prefer wrapping myself in toilet paper and sashaying across the lawn. But the truth was that I looked good in it. For the first time in years, I let her brush my hair. She pulled it into a simple low ponytail and wrapped a piece of hair around the elastic band to hide it, then curled the tail with one of her eighteen thousand beauty appliances. She would’ve put makeup on me herself, but I howled in protest when she pulled out the medieval-looking eyelash-curling contraption. I just used some of her Guerlain mascara and put on a little lip gloss. She insisted I borrow a pair of simple pearl earrings and a strand of pearls. I drew the line at heels, so she gave me a pair of dark blue Ferragamo jelly flats with a peep toe. I watched her try unsuccessfully to hide her horror at my lack of a pedicure, but I guess she figured she’d won the sartorial battle and didn’t need to push her luck by demanding I paint my toenails.
We both looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror inside her enormous walk-in closet. For the first time since I got those highlights back when I was twelve, I saw my mother’s eyes light up with pride.
“See,” she said triumphantly. “You really can be a pretty girl when you try.”
“Um,” I said. “Thanks.” It was as close to a genuine compliment as I was going to get from her.
I waited in the kitchen and watched through the window as the first hour of the party unfolded. Thankfully, my mother was holed up in her home office on a conference call with her lawyer about something or other and didn’t nag me about arriving on time. Everybody knows you don’t get to a party right when the invitation says it starts. You run the risk of being the first person there, with no one to talk to, which is even worse than getting there when all the other people have gathered. Then at least you might have the chance to strike up a conversation with someone you know.
Of course, it occurred to me that I might not know anyone at this party. I tried my best to make out the people parking in Jacinta’s long driveway and along our street, and I thought I saw some of the regulars from the clambakes at Baxley’s. I grabbed my mother’s binoculars (she claims to be a birdwatcher, but I think she just spies on people across the pond) and peered through them.
There were the Fitzwilliams sisters, Audrey and Katharine, who were notable for being Kennedy cousins and for getting drunk at every clambake or garden party I’d ever seen them at. Their parents never seemed to notice or care, which is probably why they kept drinking. They had each paired off with a Stetler brother, neither of whose first names I could recall, and they all made a beeline for the bar tent as soon as they rounded the corner of the house and entered the backyard. None of them seemed particularly surprised or delighted by the carnival surroundings. I saw Audrey Fitzwilliams give the Ferris wheel a dispirited glance before downing the first of what would undoubtedly be many shots that evening. One of the Stetler brothers put his hand on her butt as if that were perfectly normal public behavior.
I didn’t recognize any of the other people streaming into the backyard. The girls all wore pretty dresses and sported perfect tans, while the boys wore polo shirts or short-sleeved button-downs with khaki pants or shorts.
“Naomi!” My mother’s voice behind me startled me. I turned around, and she folded her arms in disapproval. “Are you going to just stand there and watch, or are you going to join in the fun?”
I looked at the clock, which read 7:55 p.m.
“I guess it’s time for me to join in the fun,” I said. “But I might be back in five minutes, if it sucks.”
“Give it an hour at the very least,” Mom said. “Anything less would be terribly rude.”
She stood on the back deck and watched me as I walked across the lawn and, my heart beating extra-fast, rang the bell at Jacinta Trimalchio’s castle door. In the gathering darkness, the lights shone bright through the windows. Though I could hear a crowd chattering inside the house, no one answered the door. Nervously, I looked across the lawn at my mother, who gestured that I should ring the bell again. I obeyed, but still no response. Somewhat relieved, I was about to turn around and head home when the door swung wide open, and Jeff Byron greeted me.
“Jeff!” I said in surprise.
“Naomi!” he said, mocking me—but with a big flirtatious grin. “Come join the circus.” He put his arm around me and put his hand on my back, leading me inside.
“Oh my God,” I said, staring at the luxurious, crowded foyer in which we found ourselves. “This is—”
“Tacky? Fun? Ridiculous?”
“All of it,” I said in wonder.
It was a soaring three-story foyer with a white marble floor and an enormous crystal chandelier that had been fitted with pink lightbulbs. A huge white marble butterfly staircase dominated the space, its white marble balustrade resplendent with bright red bunting. Everywhere I looked, I saw red roses: garlands of them hang
ing from the chandelier, draped around gilt-framed mirrors, peeking out from behind the ears of New York’s wealthiest young women. White-jacketed cater waiters with red flowers in their lapels circled among the dozens of guests hanging out in the foyer, offering raw oysters and fried oysters, glasses of red wine and glasses of white wine, flutes of pink champagne, and bits of fruits and meats and cheeses intermingled in complicated, fancy haute cuisine ways that my mother would’ve identified and judged immediately. And up on the landing of the butterfly staircase, where the stairs met the second floor of the house, sat a white-and-red-clad full band banging out old-fashioned music that sounded like something from Skags’s other favorite Netflix show, Boardwalk Empire.
“How many people our age do you know who’d throw a party set to Jazz Age standards?” Jeff said, grabbing two glasses of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and handing me a flute.
“Is that what that music is?” I asked, taking a big gulp of my champagne. I’m not much of a drinker, but the dazzling lights and sounds and colors had me feeling like some kind of relaxing substance was in order. I made a split-second vow to myself that I wasn’t just going to be Naomi the confession receptacle at this party. I was going to—participate, whatever that meant. Champagne seemed like a start.
“Yup. I know it sounds pretentious, but I love jazz.” He pressed his hand into my lower back and led me up the staircase, so we could stand closer to the band. “This is ‘Always’ by Irving Berlin,” he said into my ear. I shivered a bit and drew a little closer to him.
“How do you know so much about music?” I asked.
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