I settle my skirt around me as the chauffeur closes the door, then escorts Aubrey to the opposite side of the car.
When I’m satisfied that my skirt won’t wrinkle, I grab one of the champagne glasses and take a long sip. It would be rude not to.
Aubrey lowers herself carefully into the seat beside me, eyes widening when she spies my glass. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” she asks.
I know—I know—that she’s only asking because she’s nervous about tonight. Not because she’s judging me, or thinks she’s better than me, or any of the other uncharitable things that start buzzing through my head. But I down half the glass before answering coolly, “I think it’s a great idea.”
“Milly.” Her open, freckled face is troubled. “I hate this.”
“Hate what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she means, because I hate it too. Somehow, though, the same resentment that’s been curdling our interactions all week makes me tip my head and gulp the rest of the champagne. “Lighten up. It’s supposed to be a party,” I say, putting my empty glass down next to Aubrey’s full one. Then I see the tears forming in her eyes.
Another gut punch hits me, and this time, I grab her hand. “Don’t cry,” I say urgently. There are at least a dozen things I should say after that, but all I can manage to get out is, “Your mascara will run.”
Aubrey sniffs. “I don’t care about my mascara.”
“We’ve arrived,” the chauffeur says smoothly. I turn to look and we’re pulling up on the lawn in front of the resort’s side door. That was literally a ninety-second drive.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Aubrey, but that’s all I have time for before my door opens to reveal Donald Camden in all his silver-haired, tuxedo-clad glory.
“Good evening, ladies. I’m your escort to the gala.” He and the chauffeur help us out of the car, and then Aubrey and I are on either side of Donald and heading inside. We can’t talk, except to answer his polite questions as we make our way through the resort, and I feel restless and anxious about how we left things in the car.
“And here we are,” Donald says, pausing at the entrance to the ballroom. The room is filled with music and laughter and beautifully dressed people, the crystal chandeliers sparkling and making the tapestries on the wall glow a rich gold. A string quartet is set up on a small stage at the center of the windows, and circular tables are evenly spaced at one end of the vast room. For a second my spirit lifts—I really do love a party—and then Donald says, “Your grandmother requested that I bring you by one at a time so she can speak with each of you individually before dinner. She’d like to start with you, Aubrey.”
Of course she would. I swallow the words, but Aubrey sees them on my face anyway. “Maybe Milly should go first,” she says.
“No, it’s fine,” I say tightly, disengaging myself from Donald. “I’ll mingle.”
“Milly—” she says unhappily, but Donald is already ushering her toward the head table. I grab a glass of champagne from a passing server and take a much longer sip than etiquette would recommend. Then I work my way farther into the room.
The Summer Gala. I used to think it was a magical event, the absolute height of glamour. I loved looking at pictures of my mother in her white dress, and imagining myself transported in her place. Now I’m finally here, and all I can think is that I hope she wasn’t as miserable that night as I am now.
“Hi, Milly.” The quiet voice at my side startles me, and I turn to see Hazel Baxter-Clement looking tired and drawn in a wine-colored gown. Her dark hair is piled high on her head, and she’s holding a full champagne glass.
“Hazel, oh my gosh.” I grab her free hand with mine. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to talk to you at the funeral.” The burial after the Mass had been private, family only. “And I’m so sorry about your grandfather. He was a really sweet man.”
“Thanks,” Hazel says. “The good thing, I guess, is that he had a long life. And his dementia was getting worse, so…” She heaves a sigh. “Mom says maybe it’s a blessing that he doesn’t have to go through the late stages of that. I don’t know. I just wish he would’ve died in his