by Bridie Clark
“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—”
“You think I’m wearing this again? When I get home, I’m going to have this dress incinerated.” Cornelia grabbed her purse. “Have fun tonight, Lily.”
“Lucy,” she said. But Cornelia had already sailed out of the bathroom.
Wyatt forced himself to stay at the table, watching Lucy work the crowd from a distance. You could see at a glance that there was something different about her, he thought, something that marked her apart from the other women in the room. As she drifted effortlessly from one conversation to the next, he fought off the urge to guard her, to stand by her side and make sure nobody else latched on too tight.
“I’m going to lose this bet, aren’t I?” Trip sat down next to Wyatt, drink in hand.
“Looks that way.”
“Eloise thinks she’s a great girl.” He paused. “That what you think, too?”
Wyatt knew what his friend was asking. “I think you’re going to lose this bet.”
“Dance with me,” Cornelia purred, pulling Wyatt toward the dance floor crowded with che
ek-to-cheek couples. Lucy Ellis was nowhere to be found. The Starlight Orchestra was playing the first notes of “It Had to Be You.” Cornelia had changed out of her bridesmaid dress into a slinky Halston; after her run-in with Lucy, she’d dispatched her driver to fetch it from home. This wasn’t the time to play with one arm tied behind her back. Now she felt sexy again—and she didn’t care whether Tamsin was pouting about her perfidy to the other girls. As far as she was concerned, Wyatt Hayes IV was the main attraction tonight. Tamsin might as well have eloped with her vodka-sponge of a husband.
“This is our song,” she told Wyatt over her shoulder, finding an empty spot.
“We don’t have a song, Cornelia.”
“We don’t? We should. What about ‘I Want You Back’?” She laughed softly, pressing her body into his as they moved deeper into the crowd.
“Subtlety has never been your strong suit.” Wyatt straightened his arms to create some distance.
“Subtlety is overrated. How about ‘Endless Love’?” She pulled him right back.
“That’d be inaccurate,” Wyatt said evenly, “considering that our relationship did end.”
“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” She breathed the words into his ear in a perfect French accent. Wyatt let out a small sigh. I’m getting to him, Cornelia thought with satisfaction. He had that unmistakable, thirsty look in his eyes, as much as he tried to fight it. Cornelia loved that look. From her cousin Selden to the college history professor to the string of men she’d dated in New York—some married, some not—that look always made her feel powerful. Seductive. Like her mother’s daughter. Wyatt was the anthropologist, but it was Cornelia who understood how helpless the male of the species could become when attractive females signaled their desire. As Wyatt lowered his lips to her ear, Cornelia felt a delicious shiver pass through her. Victory was imminent.
“Cornelia, it’s not going to happen,” he whispered. She reared back, and saw that the look had vanished.
“You don’t mean that.” She kept moving her body in time to the music, but inside she felt slightly panicked. It was hard to feel seductive in the face of cold rejection. How would her mother take control of the situation?
“I do,” he said, more firmly this time. “And it’d be a good idea for you to accept that. You have your choice of men—”
“Is this about that girl you brought? Your childhood buddy? There’s something sketchy there, Wyatt, I can’t put my finger on it—”
“Cornelia, lower your voice.” Wyatt tried to edge her off the dance floor. She dug in her stilettos so the two of them spun right where they were.
“If you’re even thinking about choosing that nobody with child-bearing hips over me—”
“This has nothing to do with Lucy,” Wyatt said between gritted teeth.
Cornelia, her glance roving over his shoulder, noticed a scene that made her very happy. “I hope not, because she’s practically sucking face with Max Fairchild by the bar.” She grabbed Wyatt’s chin and turned him around—just in time to see Lucy and Max down shots and then burst into a spasm of hysterical laughter that practically drowned out the trumpet solo. Cornelia felt Wyatt’s bicep tense.
“Excuse me,” he said. He unlatched himself from Cornelia and strode off toward the bar.
She froze. Cornelia Rockman had never been abandoned on a dance floor. She had certainly never been abandoned for another girl. If the band was still playing, Cornelia couldn’t hear the music—she was deafened by her inner scream. She watched with incredulous revulsion as Wyatt eased Lucy away from Max and started to hustle her outside. Then she felt every other couple on the dance floor notice that she was alone, the still point in their turning universe.
“Exactly where you want him?” asked Leslie Reynolds, who happened to be dancing with Jackson a few feet away.
Cornelia went stiff with rage. “Twins run in your family?” she countered. Then, fuming and humiliated, she charged off the dance floor.
“I think we should dance!” Lucy said, leaning into Wyatt as he swept her past the dining tables toward an outside door. She twisted away from Wyatt’s grip and busted out her best disco strut in the middle of the crowded room.
“We’re going to get some fresh air,” Wyatt repeated.
“Are you upset about something?”
Without another word he herded her out into the hall and down the steps into the humidity, then past the valet area where some older guests were already lining up to go home.
“Uh-oh, Wyatt is unhappy!” she said, giggling—and then shut up when she saw the hard angle of Wyatt’s jaw. “What’s the matter? I’m just having fun.” What a killjoy. He might be irritated, but she was having, bar none, the best night of her life! Five glasses of champagne had washed away the sting of Cornelia’s rudeness and filled the party with instant best friends. How had she ever thought of these good folks as snobby? And then there was Max, who’d come right up to her after dinner while Wyatt was off having one of his cigarettes. They’d been doing tequila shots and cracking each other up ever since. Max was telling her about how the bride had pulled him into the coat closet just weeks before and tried to mack with him. Now it seemed kind of sad—but the way Max told it made her want to bust a gut. Anyway, she was just thrilled to have made another friend. Eloise, Trip, and now Max. Her circle was rapidly expanding!
“Will you stop weaving like that? You’re making a fool of yourself!”
“I’m tipsy. There was barely any food on the plates!” Lucy cupped her hands around her mouth and pressed against his ear. “I guess they had to cut corners somewhere—”
“Daniel Boulud catered. What did you expect, the all-you-can-eat buffet at Sizzler?”
That seemed a little harsh, but she wouldn’t let it spoil her mood. “So I got a little carried away. Max kept—”
“Right. You got carried away by Max Fairchild.”
“What? Max is a nice guy. Oops—” She would’ve tripped on the curb if Wyatt hadn’t grabbed her arm in time.
“You’re not right for each other.” Wyatt pulled a cigarette from the breast pocket of his tux.
“You said you’d stop!” Then his statement pierced through her haze. “Why aren’t Max and I right for each other? Because he was born into some fancy family and I wasn’t? Not everyone sees the world that way.” Without warning, hot tears sprang to her eyes. Why had Wyatt spent weeks building her up, making her believe she could fly in this crazy world of his—only to trash her when she did?
“Relax! Relax.” Wyatt met her eyes for an instant, then looked away. “I meant, you could do better. Max is fine, but I see you with someone more dynamic.”
Lucy’s spirits lifted as quickly as they’d dropped. Wyatt cared about whom she dated? It was the first glimmer that he saw her as more than a vehicle for winning his bet with Trip. “I’m flattered,” she said.
“Yeah, well—I see how hard you’re willing to work. And I know that you help your mother financially. It’s admirable. You’ve turned out to be a much finer person than I’d originally judged.”
“Thank you,” she said, touched by the rare praise. They endured a strangely uncomfortable moment of silence before Wyatt found more words. “We should go back inside so I can introduce you to people. Don’t lose sight of tonight’s mission: it’s your chance to connect with the who’s who of society. Maybe they’ll even want to buy a dress from you someday. Are you feeling a little clearer?”
“Yes, thanks,” Lucy said. She straightened her dress. “Do I look okay?”
Wyatt lifted a stray piece of hair from her face, grazing her cheek. She inhaled sharply at the unexpected touch, and he retracted his hand as though he’d been burned. “Perfectly fine,” he said crisply.
18
Wyatt’s Book Notes:
There’s a ritualized behavior that primatologists call “lip-smacking.” Monkeys and apes are known to “lip-smack” potential rivals as a disarming gesture, putting them at ease before stabbing them in the
back. Not unlike the socialite who air kisses her rival with feigned warmth, then blackballs her membership at the Colony Club.
Cornelia waited impatiently for her PowerBook to boot up. She’d locked the door of her Old Hollywood-inspired office, decorated in dusty rose and high-gloss white, so that her nosy staff wouldn’t wander in and find her incongruously seated in front of the skin-ravaging computer. Getting some dirt on her rival would be worth the extra Botox. Cornelia carefully hunt-and-pecked “Google.” Then “Lucia Haverford Ellis.” The screen loaded so quickly that Cornelia gasped. Twelve thousand four hundred mentions. She clicked on Rexnew-house. com and scanned the puff profile he’d written the month before. Timber family. Miss Dillard’s School. Fashion aspirations. Nothing she didn’t know already. There was Lucy at Save Venice, Lucy at the Explorers Club for a book launch, Lucy at a dinner party hosted by Leslie Reynolds just last night—they must have exchanged contact info at the wedding. All the mentions had occurred within the month of January, which only fueled Cornelia’s gnawing question: Where had this girl been before she was suddenly everywhere?
