by Bec Linder
I raised my eyebrows, a little shocked despite myself. I had always been taught to show utmost respect for the dead—but what did I know? My dinners only required one fork.
Angie frowned at Carter, giving him a stern look over the rim of her glasses. “You’re a very naughty boy. I hope he rises from the grave and haunts you, just for that.”
Weren’t either of them sad that Carter’s father had died? Didn’t they miss him? They were talking about it so lightly, like his death was a joke, or like he hadn’t really died at all, just stepped out for a few minutes.
Carter just grinned, and ate another hors d’oeuvre.
I had just put one in my own mouth, figuring it was safe for me to eat, when Angie turned her laser focus on me. “So, Regan. Is your father still alive?”
I chewed automatically, because there was food in my mouth. What kind of question was that? Who just asked someone if their father hadn’t died yet? “Yes, he’s alive,” I said.
“And what does he do?” Angie asked.
Frankly, I didn’t know. He had never been able to hold a job for more than three months, and I had no idea if he was currently working, or even if he still lived in California. “We don’t speak much,” I said.
“Hmm,” Angie said. “Family strife. A poor indication.” She looked at Carter. “Were you aware of this?”
“Don’t hassle her, Mother,” Carter said. “I told you to be nice to her.”
Angie sniffed. “I am being nice. I’m simply trying to get to know the girl.” She turned to me again. “Where did you go to school?”
“I grew up in California, so I graduated from high school out there,” I said.
Angie raised one eyebrow. “No, dear. I meant your college education. Dartmouth, perhaps? You seem like a Dartmouth girl.”
I looked at Carter, incredulous. Hadn’t he told her anything? Why hadn’t he prepared me for this lion’s den I’d walked into? “I, um. I didn’t finish college,” I said stiffly. “I spent a few semesters at CUNY.”
“I see,” Angie said. She frowned at Carter. “We’ll have to remedy that. She can’t be of much use to your political career without the appropriate pedigree.”
His what? Carter hadn’t said anything to me about wanting to go into politics. And why was I going to be involved? We had been dating for a month—it wasn’t like we were engaged.
Carter buried his face in one hand. “Mother. I am not going to have a political career.”
“I think she could be an asset, with a little polish,” Angie said. “Voters like the minority wife. Just look at our new mayor.”
I sat there, hands in my lap, too stunned to speak. I had been envisioning Carter’s mother as a kindly older woman, someone who puttered around with gardening and charity boards. Not this.
“We aren’t discussing this,” Carter said. “Regan, ignore her, she’s being abominable.” He was smiling, though, like it was all some big joke.
Well, I wasn’t laughing.
“Oh, very well,” Angie said. “I’ll leave you be for now. But this isn’t over!” She motioned to the maid, who came forward to remove our plates, and replaced them with the next course.
It was the longest meal of my life. I ate mechanically, placing each bite in my mouth without tasting anything. My heart pounded, dulling conversation into a dim roar. Carter kept making attempts to draw me into the conversation, and Angie kept neatly excluding me, saying a sentence or two in response to Carter’s efforts and then returning to whatever she had been saying about Sutton Industries or her latest investments or her tennis lessons, subjects I knew nothing about and couldn’t contribute to. It was obvious that my input wasn’t necessary or desired. I kept quiet and ate.
I didn’t know why Carter had asked me to join him.
When Angie left the room to see about dessert, Carter leaned across the table and took my hand. “Are you okay? You’re being so quiet.”
“She hates me,” I said, and then immediately regretted it. Carter didn’t need to hear me whining about how miserable I was.
He looked startled. “Why would you say that? Because of the politics thing? Don’t pay any attention, she’s always like that.”
It wasn’t the politics thing—it was all of it, the way she looked at me, the way she had taken my measure in a single glance and dismissed me as someone unworthy of her notice. But I couldn’t say that to Carter. I didn’t understand their relationship, their strange verbal parrying, but they obviously had great affection for each other, and I didn’t think he would respond well if he thought I was criticizing his mother.
So I just said, “I’m sure it’s nothing,” and Angie returned with dessert before Carter could push the issue.
I wondered how long it would take for Carter’s mother to convince him to break up with me. I could imagine the conversation all too clearly: I was too poor, too unsophisticated, too ignorant about the way their world operated. I would never make a good society wife. I couldn’t even figure out which fork to use at dinner. It would be better to make a clean break, to end things before someone (me) got too attached. Angie would frame it as a kindness: Carter would be doing me a favor. She would talk him around to it, slowly and persuasively, and eventually he would come to see the light. I would be happier with someone of my own social class. And didn’t Carter care about my happiness?
I would just have to end it first, and preserve my dignity.
But I didn’t want to. That was the problem. I poked at my dessert and watched Carter describing some investment he had made, hands moving in abstract gestures, face animated. I wasn’t ready to lose him just yet.
Chapter 7
I woke up on Friday to a text message from Carter: Horrible charity ball Saturday night. Go with me?
I rubbed my eyes and went to make coffee. I needed caffeine before I could deal with this.
We hadn’t spoken since Wednesday night, after he took me home after dinner at his mother’s. I worked and licked my wounds, and waited for him to contact me first. And now he had, and it wasn’t what I had been hoping for. A charity ball? Really? His mother had been bad enough; now he wanted me to spend the evening with hundreds of people just like her, all of them staring at me with bright, glittering eyes, waiting to find any excuse to tear me apart.
Maybe I was being a little melodramatic.
I replied to Carter’s text. I don’t have a ball gown
Surmountable problem, he replied. So you’ll go? I need moral support.
I would need a Valium, or a lot of alcohol. I don’t think it’s a good idea.
Please? All you’ll need to do is look pretty. I won’t even make you dance.
I didn’t want to, I didn’t want to—but Carter had said please, and he’d complained to me before about how much he hated these balls.
But why was I always agreeing to do things I dreaded?
I made a bargain with myself. I would go to this ball, and if I hated it, I would tell Carter I never wanted to go to another one. And then he couldn’t tell me that it wasn’t as bad as I thought, because I would have hard, cold experience backing me up.
The thing was, I wanted to be a good sport. I wanted to show Carter that I would play ball and do my best to support him in the things that he cared about. But I also didn’t want to spent the rest of my life, or however long, doing things that made my stomach feel like unbaked bread.
Okay, I’ll do it. But I need a dress!
Wonderful. I’ll take you to Bergdorf’s tomorrow morning.
I winced. He would probably try to talk me into a fur coat and a diamond tiara. I texted him that I’d meet him at the store at noon the next day, and started getting ready for work.
The next morning, I set my alarm and took the subway to 59th Street. Midtown was packed with people doing their Christmas shopping. I walked the couple of blocks down 5th Avenue to the store, and waited for Carter beside the main entrance, where he’d said he would meet me.
The weather was warmer than it
had been lately, and it was nice to be outside, even with people jostling past me on the sidewalk. I only had to wait for a few minutes before I saw Carter’s car pulling up to the curb, and he stepped out. He spotted me right away and waded through the crowds to reach me.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “Traffic.”
“I just got here,” I said. I glanced around, worried that someone would see us together and take pictures. “Are you ready?”
“Let’s—what’s the saying? Shop until we drop?” He took my arm, and we went into the store.
I realized very quickly that Carter wasn’t your stereotypical helpless male when it came to shopping. He guided me straight to the women’s department and snagged one of the salesgirls. “Is Betty here? I’m in need of a dress.”
The salesgirl did a double-take. She obviously recognized him, and it was funny to watch her try to pretend that she didn’t. “If you’re in need of personal shopping services, sir—”
“No, I want Betty,” Carter said. “Tell her it’s Carter. She’ll know who I am.”
The salesgirl compressed her lips into a thin line. “I’ll go find her, sir. Just a moment.”
Carter turned to me, looking satisfied. “Betty will find you the perfect dress. She’s been dressing my mother for decades.”
We waited for a few minutes, standing awkwardly in the middle of the store. Well, I felt awkward, anyway. Carter seemed perfectly at home, hands tucked casually in his pockets, his coat draped over one arm.
“You said it’s a charity ball,” I said finally, breaking the silence. “What charity?”
“Well, maybe charity was the wrong word,” he said. “It’s an arts fundraiser. Not my chosen cause, but my mother asked me to go, and I feel obligated.” He sighed. “She thinks that I’ll eventually get tired of supporting social justice organizations and devote myself to the arts.”
“I thought you liked art,” I said.
He smiled at me. “I do. I’d just rather invest my energy elsewhere. These galas are a waste of time. They serve no purpose but to impress rich people with their own magnanimity. The hors d’oeuvres are usually nice, though.”
Finger food didn’t sound like enough of a draw to me, but what did I know? “But I don’t have to dance, right?”
He laughed. “I was joking. There won’t be any dancing.”
“Well, I didn’t know,” I said, embarrassed.
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease you about things like that. There is dancing, sometimes. Just not at this one.”
A movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention, and I turned my head to see an elegantly dressed, silver-haired woman walking toward us. She was old—really old, definitely in her 80s—but she moved quickly and and with purpose.
Carter turned around when he saw that I was looking at something, and I watched as his face lit up in a huge smile. “The woman herself,” he said, stepping forward, and bent to kiss the old woman on both cheeks. “Betty, I hope I’m not taking you away from something important.”
“You are, but you’re worth it,” she said. “How is your mother?”
“The same as always,” he said. “You know how she is.”
The woman smiled. “Oh, I do indeed. And who is this lovely young lady?” She turned to me and offered her hand.
I shook it, relieved that she had given me a cue I knew how to respond to. “I’m Regan,” I said.
“Regan. What a delight.” She seemed so warm and sincere that I found myself relaxing, and returning her smile. “My name is Betty, and it seems that Carter would like me to find a dress for you.”
“Charity ball tonight,” Carter said. “You know the one. She doesn’t really have anything to wear.”
“She will soon,” Betty said, looking me up and down. “Dressing you will be a delight, my dear. You have a lovely figure.”
I blushed. “Um, thank you?”
“Oh, and shy. Aren’t you a doll. Yes, I think we’ll get along very nicely. Carter, you go sit over there and keep yourself occupied. Regan and I have some important business to take care of.” With that, Betty nodded firmly, told me, “Right this way,” and led me off into the depths of the store.
I cast a glance back over my shoulder at Carter. He winked at me.
Acting on impulse, I blew him a kiss.
“Let’s go through the racks together,” Betty said. “I think you’re a woman who knows what she likes. With your coloring, a jewel tone, I think. Do you prefer red or blue?”
I thought about it. “Red.”
“Ruby, then,” Betty said. “Or maroon.” She stopped at a display of dresses and smiled at me. “We’ll find you the perfect dress.”
“I believe you,” I said.
It took three hours, but Betty kept her promise. She made me try on more gowns than I could count, in all colors of the rainbow, and we ended up deciding on a sleek mustard-colored confection, cut low in the back. “Very Michelle Williams, 2006 Oscars,” Betty said. “You’ll be the center of attention, my dear.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said, staring at myself in the mirror. I never wore yellow—I’d gotten the idea, at some point, that it wasn’t a good color for me—and it was like seeing someone in public who you recognized but couldn’t place, some phantom out of the distant past.
Betty pursed her lips. “May I give you some advice?”
I looked at her, this old woman who had dressed New York’s elite for decades. I wondered what she had seen, what secrets she’d been told. “Please,” I said.
“Carter is a good boy,” she said. “Very kind. But you, I think, need a delicate touch, and he won’t always remember to provide it.” She cocked her head at me. “Look after yourself. It’s all that a woman can do, really.”
“I know,” I said. I smoothed the skirt of my dress.
“Well,” Betty said. “Let’s find you some shoes.”
She wrapped everything in tissue paper and packed it away in a bag before she sent me back to Carter. “Let it be a surprise,” she said. “He’ll be too stunned to speak when he sees you.”
“I hope so,” I said.
She took my hands in hers and said, “Best of luck to you, my dear.”
“Thank you,” I said. “For everything.” And then, without thinking about it, I bent and kissed her papery cheek.
I went to find Carter. He was sitting where we’d left him, scowling at his phone. He put it away when he saw me, and smiled. “Success?”
“Success,” I said. I showed him the bags. “You don’t get to see until later.”
“Betty’s had her way with you, I see,” Carter said. “The conspiracies of women! She charged it to my account, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll pay you back—”
“Absolutely not,” Carter said. He touched my cheek. “Regan. You’re doing me a favor. I know you don’t want me to buy things for you, but let me do it just this once, okay? You know the money is nothing to me.”
I knew, and that was the problem. But I couldn’t afford the dress—the price tag had been well into four figures—and Carter was looking at me so earnestly, so badly wanting me to accept his generosity, that I couldn’t find it in my heart to refuse. I thought of what Betty had said about how I needed a light touch. Well, maybe Carter needed someone to be gentle with him, too. “Just this once,” I said, and he bent to kiss me, right there in the middle of Bergdorf Goodman, and for once I didn’t even care who was watching.
* * *
The ball started that evening at 8, at a venue uptown. The car pulled up outside the building, and I gawked out the window at all the women in their fancy dresses, the men wearing tuxedos. They mingled on the sidewalk, laughing and talking. Everyone looked so glamorous.
I would have been much more worried about my appearance if Betty hadn’t given me her approval. I knew she had probably picked out the dresses for many of the other women who would be at the ball. Even so, I’d kept my m
akeup simple and done my hair in a basic chignon, too nervous to take any risks.
“Stop worrying,” Carter said. He put one hand on my knee, and leaned in to give me a kiss. “You look incredible. You’ll put everyone else to shame.” He kissed me again. “Are you ready?”
“I guess so,” I said.
“We’ll go straight inside,” he said. “We won’t stop for pictures.”
Pictures? My stomach clenched, but Carter was already getting out of the car, and I had no choice but to follow him.
Lightbulbs flashed, blinding me. “Mr. Sutton!” someone called, and someone else said, “Carter, who’s your date?”
I ducked my head, clinging to Carter’s arm as we walked toward the building. I hadn’t been expecting photographers. Carter had obviously known, and he hadn’t told me—maybe to keep me from worrying? But I wished he had given me some warning.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said, leading me through the front door. “There are usually a couple of lifestyle reporters at these events. They won’t be allowed inside.”
I took a deep breath, calming myself. “Okay,” I said.
The interior of the building was everything I expected it to be: huge, luxurious, filled with red velvet and marble. Party-goers swarmed the foyer, their voices echoing in the cavernous space. A string quartet played in a corner, and waiters dressed in black circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres.
Carter led to me a marble pillar at the foot of a staircase leading up into the darkness. “I’ll take your coat,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Alone, I smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from my dress and tried to look inconspicuous. My dress was too bright, too attention-grabbing. Nobody else was wearing yellow, and I was afraid that everyone would look at me.
Carter returned before I could work myself into a panic. He took my arm and said, “We’d better make the rounds. There are people here who expect me to speak to them.”
“Do I have to talk to people?” I asked. I would do it if I had to, but I wouldn’t like it.
“Not much,” he said. “I’ll introduce you; just tell them you’re pleased to make their acquaintance. I don’t intend to spend very long talking to anyone. In and out.” He smiled at me. “Then we’ll eat, and listen to the music.”
