“It will depend on the location,” Mitzi says. “Location is everything. We won’t have it in the city. Perhaps Palm Beach?”
“Mother . . .” Kennedy growls.
“Though the humidity in Palm Beach is atrocious. But definitely outdoors. White tents, green hills, sunset . . .”
Kennedy stands up. “Mother—”
“And white flowers!” Mitzy says. “But no lilies—they remind me of a funeral.”
Kennedy stamps her foot. “Mother!”
Mitzy makes a sound like a disgruntled hen. “Kennedy, really! What’s gotten into you? Is this any way for a bride to behave?”
“You’re not doing this! You don’t get to be in charge!”
“Lower your voice. All that yelling will make you break a blood vessel—and your complexion really can’t afford that.”
“We will make our own decisions, and you will have no say in the matter, Mother! If we want to get married in Tahiti, we will!”
Mitzy gives Kennedy an indifferent wave. “Yes, yes, that’s fine dear.” Then she turns toward my mother and asks her who designed Ivanka Trump’s wedding gown.
“In fact,” Kennedy hisses to no one, “that’s just what we’ll do. We’ll get married in Tahiti!” She bangs the table. “In a bar!”
“Is that a proposal? This is so sudden.” I squint as if I’m thinking it over, then nod. “I accept.”
“Naked!” Kennedy yells at her mother, wagging her finger. “And we won’t take any pictures!”
“If we’re going to be naked, we really should take a few pictures.” I insist. “Or a video.”
But our mothers just keep on chirping. Kennedy and I might as well not even be here anymore—which is the best fucking idea I’ve heard all night.
I stand up and grab her hand. “Come on.”
She doesn’t come willingly at first, so I tug her along.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” she complains, gesturing back toward the parents, who don’t even notice we’ve left the room. They’re having too serious a discussion.
About us.
“No, it doesn’t bother me.”
“How can it not? How can they—”
I cut her off with a deep kiss—one hand holding the base of her neck, the other at the small of her back—pressing her against me. Then I tell her, “Let them have their fun. Let them talk and plan their hearts out. When the time comes, we’ll do whatever the hell we want anyway.”
I pull her toward the back door. “Now, let’s go for a walk. You can let me into your boathouse.”
“Is that a euphemism?”
I’m surprised she has to ask.
“Yep.”
17
My parents are on the boards of several charitable organizations, institutions, and societies whose goals are close to their hearts—feeding children in third-world countries, bestowing iPads to inner-city schools, protecting endangered plant life in the rain forest. Fund-raisers—high-end parties that drum up donations for those endowments—are par for the course. And sometimes my parents hit me up to stand in for them, to represent the Mason Foundation.
That’s how Kennedy and I end up walking through the arched doors of the Smithsonian Institute the following Thursday night, for a gala supporting the creation of sustained clean drinking water in Africa. The room is lit with cool, strategically placed orange beams of light and bright, festive swaths of cloth draped across the ceiling. There’s a steady roar of chatter and laughter and the tinkling of champagne glasses as tuxedo-clad gentlemen and jewel-dripping ladies enjoy themselves thoroughly.
Kennedy looks outstanding in a short, body-hugging ice-blue number with an off-the-shoulder neckline that gives the impression the dress could just slip off her at any moment. I’m going to test that theory later on. We have a drink and make small talk with the main organizer and emcee of the evening, Calvin Van Der Woodsen, an old acquaintance of my father’s.
After a few minutes, Calvin’s called away because the kitchen has run out of purple kale for the garnish. And that’s when my wretched cousin walks up to us.
“Hey again, cuz. Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
“Louis.” I nod.
And he leers. At Kennedy. “Who do we have here?”
“Kennedy Randolph, you remember my cousin Louis, don’t you?”
Her lips draw together like she’d sucked an unripe lemon. I take that as a yes.
“Randolph, huh? I used to hook up with your sister, back in the day. Claire . . .” Louis stresses the consonants in a sleazy kind of way. “You look like her. How’s she doing?”
Kennedy stares him down. “She’s married. Happily.”
“Too bad.” Then he points at me, spilling some of his scotch on the floor. “Speaking of marriage—from what I hear, I’m on my way to winning our bet.”
Shit. I forgot about that.
Kennedy goes pale, and I can practically feel her heart stutter.
“A bet?” she whispers.