“And who made your lovely gowns? Do tell.”
I grinned at Ruby. “It’s a custom-made line by an up-and-coming designer. We’ll have these for sale at Printemps later this spring.”
Chris gave an exaggerated mouth drop. “Are you telling me that you’re carrying custom couture now? Shut the front door.”
I shrugged one shoulder, not exactly certain how to answer that. Ruby and I hadn’t really talked about what came next for her. It was obvious to me that something should happen, whether I phoned my aunt and begged her to come down and meet Ruby—and visit Marguerite—or whether Ruby wanted to build her own business from the ground floor up. We needed to talk about it, even though I supposed it was her decision and I hadn’t a role other than as her biggest supporter. “You’ll know soon enough.”
“Oooh,” Chris drawled, eyeing Ruby. “You girls have a secret. I love secrets.”
I was about to make a casual comeback when my eye caught sight of my husband’s biggest secret—Stephanie the Tennis Pro entering the foyer with a few other similarly fit younger women. She had her hair in a high ponytail, wore a slinky dress covered in sequins, and carried a clutch that I happened to know cost $880 only because I had seen it in the Bergdorf Goodman email I had deleted from my computer a few days ago. How did a tennis pro afford a Christian Louboutin bag on her salary?
I glanced over to where my husband stood with his cronies, sipping scotch and telling middle-aged-white-guy stories. Scott glanced at Stephanie, and I saw him acknowledge her. She, in turn, smiled slyly at him.
“Uh,” I said, before realizing that Chris would totally catch it.
He arched a waxed eyebrow.
“Nothing. Just my Spanx riding up into places only my doctor should see.”
“Well, that tells me everything I need to know about Scott,” Chris said with a laugh. “Shall I fetch you ladies some chardonnay?”
If only he knew what Scott had been up to in recent months.
“Beat you to it,” Ty said, handing off a glass of something gold and fizzy. “But I went with champagne because these dames deserve the bubbly.”
“Too true,” Chris said, finding the perfect opportunity to flirt with a straight guy. Or I assumed Ty Walker was a straight guy. They turned to one another and discussed golfing, which was more boring than timing a centipede crossing the kitchen, which was something I had done weeks ago when I was mourning my marriage. Seemed twenty-six minutes and a few seconds in change was the winning number. And then Pippa had come in and promptly eaten the centipede, which seemed like a very unfair reward for the creature reaching its goal.
Ruby looked amused at Ty being tied up with Chris as she stepped back toward me so we were nearly shoulder to shoulder. Then I watched as she crowd-surfed with her gaze. Her eyes lingered on Stephanie for a moment, as if she knew who the woman was.
“That’s her,” I whispered under my breath.
She straightened, and her mouth went flat. Then she uttered a really dirty word that made my eyes pop. But I loved it. Loved that she came to my defense. Loved having someone else know about Stephanie. Somehow it made my burden less.
“Yeah, she is, isn’t she?” I said, somehow feeling emboldened in my dress.
My mother arrived, along with my father and his wife, so the next thirty minutes were spent trying to defuse the barbs my mother tossed Crystalle’s way while helping everyone find their tables, which were not close to each other, thanks be to God. My mother settled into talking with her friend Roberta, and my father and his wife—who I might add did not resemble a blueberry, as my mother had suggested in a very passive-aggressive, backhanded-compliment kind of way—were sipping gin and tonics and catching up with their former neighbors. I noted that Ruby was being attended to by her date, so I slipped out of the main room to check if all was ready for the live auction that would occur in two hours’ time. We had placed all the auction donations in a holding area off the foyer and had been awaiting a few last-minute items. If they didn’t arrive, I would have to ensure that an announcement was made and they were stricken from the booklet I had designed.
We had several pieces of art, a handful of collector’s guns, and a baseball signed by Babe Ruth; otherwise, the live auction consisted mostly of trips and experiences. Scott and I had once bid on a hunting trip to Argentina, which he promptly sold for more money to one of his friends. Yes, my husband profited off charity. I hadn’t thought that much about it at the time, but now it seemed pretty shoddy and exactly the kind of thing a cheaterpants would do.
My sojourn to the holding room proved useless since my friends Shelley and Donna had everything perfectly placed, a gaggle of pretty high school girls waiting to showcase the items, and cute little paddles with funny pictures of celebrities on them as the bidding tools. I could just hear the auctioneer say Sold to Lady Gaga! and how confused some of the older people would be. Already a gentleman had exclaimed within my hearing, “Is that Ingrid Bergman?” when he’d received his paddle upon entry to the gala. I wasn’t even going to try to explain Gaga to him.
Still, not my problem. I was the cataloger and creator of the auction booklet. My cochairs would have to worry about explaining who the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air was. And since all the items had arrived, I had no announcements to make later.
I waved farewell to my two friends and slipped out, nearly mowing over a waiter. The foyer had thinned out, with only a cluster of people here and there, including Stephanie, who was laughing as if the world belonged to her.
Or maybe as if my husband did.
I stepped back into the shadows tucked around the corner of the foyer and closed my eyes, pressing myself to the wall. Beside me, a gate had been erected to prevent people from sneaking into areas they shouldn’t. But as I stood clinging to the wall like a nervous bungee jumper, I heard someone talking from beyond the gate in the gathered darkness, which was faintly lit by the glowing exit sign.
More specifically, it sounded like Scott saying something about “being worried.”
I inched a little closer, trying to peer into the darkness but stay hidden, which was not easy to do with a flared dress and clacky heels.
“I’m telling you, he was watching me,” Scott insisted.
My heart started racing.
Another unrecognizable male voice asked something like, “How do you know?”
“He was sitting outside of Steph’s house. I watched him out the window for a while. He didn’t take any pictures or anything, but I could tell he was watching. I just had a feeling.”
I heard a muffled question I didn’t quite catch, and Scott said, “My wife? Maybe. The guy wouldn’t say. He just told me to pay him five hundred and he’d disappear. Refused to give his name or who he worked for.”