“Oh, he wears an ankle bracelet so I can keep track of him,” Poppy said absently.
“Poppy has it all,” said Amelia, a little unkindly. “And we all kind of hate her.” She tapped a manicured nail against the window. A biathlon was taking place in Central Park, and hundreds of runners thundered past toward the finish line. “Do you know what Bethany said when we came in?” she murmured, changing the subject. “‘Mommy, can I be in the bisexual next year?’ I was like, ‘Don’t you mean biathlon?’ But she said, ‘No, I want to be in the bisexual!’”
Poppy smirked. “Skylar said ‘douche bag’ to the doorman.”
Darcy, a blond mother, shifted her weight. She had Pilates-perfect balance even in her five-inch heels. “My daughter’s favorite word is prick.” Then she looked at Rowan. “What about yours?”
“Oh, um—”
Before Rowan could answer, Poppy clutched her arm. “Rowan is the best aunt in the world,” she said in a loud voice.
“Thanks,” Natasha said sardonically.
“Tied for best aunt,” Poppy corrected herself with a smile, squeezing Rowan tighter. “And she’s Saybrook’s senior counsel. She was first in her class at Columbia Law.”
Rowan suddenly felt too tall and too visible, all elbows and angles. Poppy meant well, but boasting about what Rowan was seemed to highlight what she wasn’t: a mother.
Fumbling to change the topic, Rowan turned toward Natasha. “So . . . how’s the studio?” she asked. After Natasha decided she no longer wanted to be a Saybrook, she’d moved to Brooklyn and reinvented herself, running a yoga studio for the borough’s bourgeoisie.
“It’s great, thanks,” Natasha said, lowering her long lashes. She was darker than the other Saybrook girls, with olive skin, sleek, dark hair, and almond-shaped eyes. “How are things going with . . . Charlie, is it?”
Aunt Penelope leaned on the cane she’d used ever since her skiing accident. Rowan’s mother set down her water glass. “Are you seeing someone, Ro?”
“Oh, we’re just friends,” Rowan said quickly.
Aunt Candace and Aunt Penelope exchanged a glance, as if to say, Oh, no. What’s wrong with this one?
Rowan’s skin prickled, and sensing more questions on the way, she excused herself, darting into the hall. She hurried past the line of Warhols, Picassos, and an Annie Leibovitz portrait of Poppy’s parents, her mom in a long, breezy dress, her strapping, tanned father in jeans and a polo shirt, in front of a ramshackle red barn. They’d always been Rowan’s favorite aunt and uncle. In middle school she’d spent several summers on their farm, shearing the sheep with Poppy and exploring the cavernous attic in their refurbished farmhouse. Uncle Lawrence hadn’t gone into the family business, but he had several old photo albums of the family from back before Papa Alfred found the Corona Diamond. Rowan and Poppy used to marvel at snapshots of Edith without her now-ubiquitous fur.
When she reached the bathroom, Rowan slipped inside and slammed the door hard. A little wooden plaque hanging from the doorknob rattled. “Go Away,” it read. Rowan’s thoughts exactly.
Rowan stared at her reflection in the mirror. She had an oval face, bow-shaped lips, a long forehead, a sloping nose, and the signature Saybrook blue eyes. Her tall frame was lithe and toned from long runs and hours on the tennis court. She knew she was pretty; plenty of people said so. And she was as successful as Poppy said—senior counsel at Saybrook’s just five years out of law school, and she sat on several review boards and charities. She loved her family, and she adored her two dogs, Jackson and Bert. But she was nearly thirty-three, and still on her own.
It was, of course, the same conundrum she’d pondered for years. Thanks to her two older brothers, who now lived across the country and overseas, Rowan had no trouble with men. Growing up, she was always up for a game of hockey or freeze tag at the end of their cul-de-sac in Chappaqua, and she beat up on Michael and Palmer as much as they beat up on her. As she got older, she and some of her cute guy friends did more than just play touch football. Girls in her class talked about only having sex when they were in love, but Rowan thought that was just about as naive as believing that putting on a satin gown made you Cinderella.