if there are distinct wings within the house, a central and two side sections, each with turrets and chimneys rising from the roofline.
Driving around to the side, since servants definitely don’t warrant a front-door entry at a place like this, I can see more columns on the back of the home, but instead of going to the roof, they end at a large second-floor balcony that overlooks the ocean.
I have a flash of what this life must be like. Days spent lounging by the pool or breakfast on the balcony as you watch the tide come in, soft breezes and blue skies over manicured grounds.
Even bitter New York winters are probably tempered by roaring fires, cable-knit sweaters, and snifters of warm brandy while surrounded by leather and oak paneling. It sounds picturesque, but I know there’s a dark side to the fairy tale.
There always is, and Claire made sure I knew what I was getting myself into before letting me go tonight, reviewing the risks and players with me until I could quote her words back to her without any mistakes.
I park my Lexus in the lot, noting that the other cars all seem to be nice and new too. I guess being a Mostest Hostess pays decent money, enough for the other girls to drive as well as I do, thanks to Mom and Dad’s twenty-first birthday gift.
I love my Lexie. She’s my baby, and I’ll throw down on anyone who even threatens her.
With a final deep breath for courage, I assume the mantle of Kitty Williamson, secret spy on a mission for the FBI. The hostess part comes naturally, but being on the lookout for the list of things Claire wanted me to keep an eye on is less so.
I’ll have to be careful, conscientious, and maybe a bit daring.
Excitement and fear rush through me in equal measure.
I walk the few steps to the side door of the house, which opens as I approach, revealing an older, grey-haired man in slacks and a dress shirt with a bowtie.
Everything about him, from his dress to the way he holds himself, his face carefully neutral, screams formality, and I fight the urge to curtsy.
“Miss Williamson, do come in,” he says, his accent revealing him to be the disembodied voice on the callbox.
“Thank you . . . ?” I let the sentence hang, inviting him to tell me his name as I step inside the entryway to a sort of mudroom. If you can call something the size of a one-car garage a mudroom.
His smile is slight. “Mr. Prescott. I have worked for the Stones for two generations, and it is my pleasure to oversee tonight’s party preparations.”
He manages to say it without sounding self-important, a feat in itself. But then he does a pointed scan of me from head to toe and his judgement oozes through the moment.
I’m suddenly glad that I had a closet already well-prepped for a mission like this.
My dress is designer, from last year’s Nanette Lepore collection, but it fits me like it was custom-made to highlight my curves without going past the line of propriety.
My sky-high heels are perfectly polished black leather, so supple they beg to be touched. And my hair and makeup are on point, a chic chignon and red lips to go with a subtly finished face.
“Quite lovely, Miss Williamson,” Mr. Prescott decrees. I dip my chin in thanks, and he orders, “Follow me to the parlor.”
My heels click along the marble floor as he leads me down a hallway to a closed door, which he opens with a flourish, indicating that I should enter. I do as instructed and discover a formal living area, a parlor indeed.
Inside, several other women already wait patiently, most standing so as not to wrinkle their dresses but a few perching on chairs with demurely crossed ankles.
I’ll give Mostest Hostesses credit. While I’m sure a few of these girls are available for more than just parties, and a few are definitely gold diggers, they all look the part of a young, beautiful society lady perfectly.
“Miss Kitty Williamson,” he announces, pulling my attention back to him. With a nod, he closes the door behind him, leaving me in the parlor.
I smile politely at the gathered women in greeting. Moving toward my left, I make a casual beeline for the one friendly face in the room. I offer the blonde a hand, giving her my best smile.
“Kitty Williamson.”
The blonde offers her hand in return and we shake. “Maritziana