“True,” Jinx said. “My grandmother wore that very shade for her viewing. Everyone said she looked so natural.”
Pru chimed in. “But Caroline, of course you look lovely. You were chosen as Poppy Girl after all.”
Jinx turned away. She still hadn’t recovered from me beating her in the contest to be Poppy Girl in 1921. It had been quite an honor to be singled out from all of that year’s debutantes. At nineteen, I became the face of the new poppy effort, sponsored by the American and French Children’s League, my photo in every magazine and newspaper to promote the sale of silk boutonnière poppies. It was all to aid wounded American Great War servicemen and sick French children back in France.
“Of course, half of that poppy money went back to France,” Jinx said.
“To help tubercular children. It was a reciprocal effort, Jinx. Half of the proceeds from the poppies sold in France were used to mark the graves of American soldiers.”
“Who’s ready for bridge?” Jinx said in Betty’s direction.
“Does anyone need a partner, Betty?” I asked.
“I’m playing with Pru,” Betty said, suddenly interested in the baguettes of her engagement ring.
“I hate to say it, but we’re full up for bridge,” Jinx said with a pout. “The teams have been set for weeks, darling. I’m so terribly sorry.”
“Caroline’s been busy at work,” Betty said.
Jinx stepped closer to Betty. “Who are you and Pru playing for, Betty?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Betty said. “Not that we’ll win.”
Betty was right. She and Pru were miserable at bridge.
“Kipper and I are playing for the American Soldier Services,” Jinx said.
“Delightful,” I said.
Jinx turned to me. “You have a problem with that, Caroline?”
“Well, it’s just that most of that money goes to parties.”
“Someone has to support our troops,” Jinx said.
“I guess. If you call civilians drinking gin while the troops are off fighting support, then yes.”
“Betty, do let’s partner next time,” Jinx said. She fiddled with the accordion-pleated scarf at her neck, which brought to mind the undergills of a toadstool. For fun, I considered pulling the scarf tight around her neck. This crowd would be happy to see someone do that, something they’d all imagined themselves.
“So where’s your mother, Caroline?” Jinx asked. “Does she even come to town anymore or just stay up in the country in that big house alone?”
“The cook is there,” I said.
Jinx sipped her club soda through a tiny straw. “Alone with the Russian chef?”
“I really need to be going,” I said.
“And that handsome Negro gardener? Well, times have changed.”
“Mr. Gardener has been a tremendous friend to our family through difficult times, Jinx. Certainly a better friend to us than many others in so-called polite society.”
“Caroline, I sent a check for your French children,” Pru said, one hand on my arm. Trying to defuse the tension? She had a lovely feline way about her and gave one the impression that, given the right circumstances, she would curl up in your lap and purr.
“Thank you, Pru. We can use the donation.”
“You know, they don’t allow soliciting here tonight,” Jinx said. “It’s printed in the program. I was thrilled to see that. There’s a limit to charity.”
“At your house, certainly,” I said.
“We can’t all nail ourselves to the cross, Caroline, like your mother the wet-wool type. Not happy unless she’s wearing it, attending the needy.”
Betty stirred, shifting from one foot to the other. Breaking in new alligator pumps or uncomfortable that my mother was being maligned?
“How is Big Liz?” I asked. Jinx was named Elizabeth after her mother, who became known as Big Liz to differentiate them, a name that suited her. “Home from the ranch? You know they sell Slenderella courses by mail now.”
“She’s loving Southampton,” Jinx said. “The Murrays had her over to Gin Lane. They’ve gutted the place, your Mitchell Cottage. They brightened it up considerably. It was so dreary, they said, with the roof practically coming down and all.”
“I’m happy for them,” I said.
“So sad you had to give that place up,” Jinx said. “All because of your poor young lungs.”
“Don’t you need to be getting to the tables, Betty?” I asked.
“Poor little you, not being able to take the Southampton air. I adore that salt air rolling in off the Atlantic. Comes all the way from Africa.”
“Jinx, stop,” Betty said.
“So your parents ended up in Connecticut because of you, Caroline?” Jinx said.
What would happen if I slapped Jinx right there in front of everyone? It would feel good—my hand grazing her fat cheek.
“Yes,” I said.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Jinx said.
“Honestly, Jinx,” Betty said. “That’s enough.”
“Ironic because, after all that, your father’s lungs were the ones to go. Tragic, really.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Kipper said.
“It was years ago, Kipper, but thank you,” I said.
“I can’t imagine the guilt, him lying there in your apartment, nothing to be done,” Jinx said with the pained look of concern she did so well. “I just hate the word ‘pneumonia,’ and I imagine you do too, dear. Such a terrible word.”
At least Betty had the good manners to look away.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go…”
I spent most of the match eating more shrimp than was socially acceptable and then pretending to listen to a corporate lawyer discuss his wife’s difficulties with her maid dressing better than she did while considering ways to bring Jinx Whitney down.
At last, the gong sounded. I walked to the library and collected the tallies, the tension in the room palpable, for the only people more competitive than those bridge groups were Wall Street traders and Brazilian jiu-jitsu competitors. At least the Brazilians had banned eye gouging.
Guests mingled close to the scoreboard, bordering on jostling but trying to appear casual while awaiting results. Jinx stood with Kipper, Betty, and Pru, and after her strenuous rounds of bridge, looked more rumpled than a Bergdorf catalog at a Smith College reunion.
“How did you do, Betty?” I asked, attempting to mend our fence.
“Well, Pru got lucky on a slam.”
“I think we edged you out, Pru,” Jinx said.
I flapped my stack of tallies. “We’ll see,” I said.
“You’re tallying?” Jinx said. “Have someone double-check your math. I’d hate for you to make a mistake.”
“Don’t worry, Jinx,” I said. “How could anyone but you and Kipper come out on top?”
I ferried the fat stack back to the powder room, a gilded affair with golden swan-headed lavatory taps Marie Antoinette would have liked, and tallied the scores. Jinx and Kipper were the team to beat, having trounced Betty and Pru.
The gong to gather sounded, and I hurried to the library. Mrs. Custer stood with Mrs. Vanderbilt near the chalk tally board. Mrs. Vanderbilt, ablaze with old mine diamonds, was lovely in steel-gray taffeta and matching turban. Was it the champagne or the exertion of the noblesse oblige that brought high color to her cheek?
“Come, dear, who are our winners?” Mrs. Custer asked. “I’m afraid there’s no time to put it on the board.”
I handed her the stack, the winning tally on top. Mrs. Custer showed it to Mrs. Vanderbilt, and they shared a smile. As I stepped to the back of the room, Mrs. Custer sounded the gong, and guests gathered from all parts of the house. Men in evening clothes gave way to those in uniform, and all craned their necks for a better view.
“It is with great pleasure that I announce the winners of tonight’s bridge tournament,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said. “My late husband would see this as a fitting send-off for our old place, raising twenty thousand dollars for the Red Cross.”
The crowd clapped and shouted, and Jinx and Kipper edged their way to the front of the room.
“And another five thousand to a very lucky charity. I know you’re all eager to know the names of the talented winners who can call themselves the best of the best. So without further ado, say hello to your winning team…”
The orchestra played an anticipatory riff.