“It is true,” Rachel said, and name-dropped six of her mentors who were only famous in New York art circles. Sofia’s eyes got bigger and her mouth rounder with each one. Rachel prayed Sofia didn’t have them on speed dial. By “mentors” she meant listening to them speak on panels in crowded lecture halls.
“You attended Howard, right? So did Lyric.” Sofia spun around and waved at a tall, tawny-skinned Black woman with waist-length locs. Rachel’s former classmate looked the same as she did sixteen years ago. Ethereally beautiful and effortless—like she had gotten dressed by wandering through three different closets, pulled out the worst pieces, and reconfigured them into mixed-media art. This was Rachel’s punishment for being a liar. Not only the humiliation of being outed as one, but being outed by an accomplished, gorgeous woman who had also been cryogenically frozen in time.
Sofia touched Lyric’s arm. “I want you to meet our local First Lady, Rachel Abbott. Rachel and her husband are hosting the art gala.”
Lyric offered her hand with a blank smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Rachel’s spirits soared at the possibility she’d been forgotten, but crashed again when Sofia said, “She also attended your alma mater and studied… art history, wasn’t it?”
Rachel braced herself for Lyric inevitably asking which year she graduated, and Rachel would be forced to admit she hadn’t. Her father died during her senior year, and she’d left school three credits short of her degree. Then the conversation would spiral with Lyric realizing she was that Rachel, the one who left in a cloud of scandal surrounding her final project, and Sofia’s nose would be sky-high again, while Alesha added public embarrassment to her long list of Rachel’s failings.
“Oh?” Lyric’s expression didn’t change. “DC is such a small world sometimes,” she said. “But you must be excited about hosting this year. Sofia has a wonderful theme planned. Spectacle. It should make for some interesting interpretations.”
Rachel exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “Agreed. I bet the featured artist is excited to work with you.”
Sofia and Lyric exchanged glances. “Actually,” Lyric said, “I received a job offer in London, so I won’t be here to work on that collection.”
“We’re devastated,” Sofia said, with a hand pressed to her chest. “Thankfully, she’s offered to help us find a replacement.” She looked at Lyric. “I just found out Rachel curated for MoMA. She might know someone who could help at the last minute.”
Maybe it was the dress. Or the murder flower whispering in her ear. They drowned out the rational parts of her brain that reminded her that it had been more than a decade since she’d held an actual job. Inflating her résumé at a party was one thing. But working with a respected artist would immediately expose her as a fraud. Even Alesha looked wary. Sofia was still eyeing her like a show dog performing tricks. Lyric looked idly amused, like she’d turned on a reality TV show. Rachel couldn’t tell whether she was rooting for her success or failure.
“I can do it,” Rachel said. “I’m hosting anyway, so I’m happy to work with the artist. It’s for a good cause.”
Sofia looked at Lyric, who continued to be only mildly interested in the conversation. “That’s incredibly generous, but I’m sure your husband wouldn’t be happy about me monopolizing your time in the middle of his campaign.”
“Matt isn’t here,” Alesha said tersely. “And I think it’s an excellent idea. Another Black woman curating, and this one with actual ties to the community.” She glanced at Lyric. “An upgrade, if you ask me.”
Lyric’s smile finally faded, and Sofia’s eye twitched. Rachel pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh.
“It’ll be a tight deadline,” Sofia said, focusing on Rachel. “The pieces are still in the planning stages, and the artist is Circe Gavin. Have you heard of her? She’s incredibly in demand and can be a bit… eccentric. But with your experience, I’m sure you can handle it.”
“Of course I’ve heard of Circe,” Rachel said, with a smug chuckle that made her hate herself a little. She made a mental note to google the name later. “The timeline won’t be a problem. I’ll make it my top priority.”
Sofia squeezed Rachel’s hands again, tighter this time. A warning. “I’m sure you will. Now if you’ll excuse me. I think my husband has a speech planned.”
Lyric drifted away once Sofia left. Alesha tried to grab Rachel’s arm again but pulled back when she flinched. Her aunt looked worried. As if she had the right.
“Watch yourself,” Alesha said. “Sofia Cárdenas is a venomous snake. Be careful she doesn’t bite you.”
Nathan’s mother once told him that she could always tell when it was time to leave a party by how much the temperature had risen in the room. The longer people talked and the more they drank, the more stifling it would get. Make an exit as soon as you started to feel uncomfortable, because, according to Sofia, “that’s when it doesn’t feel like a party anymore.” Using her logic, Nathan should have left five minutes after he’d arrived. Then the fight with Joe never would have happened.
He was typing out an apology as he walked through the foyer and nearly ran into someone’s back. His father turned around and looked surprised to see him. Beto wore his usual black tux with a green tie that matched Sofia’s dress. He glanced down at Nathan’s clothes, checking for anything offensive. “We’re about to do the toast. You boys should stand with us.”
The crowd had migrated to where his mother stood on the stairs. She stared down at their upturned faces, like royalty greeting her adoring subjects.
“I can’t stay,” Nathan said. “But tell her I said happy anniversary.”
Beto fell silent, and Nathan knew what would come next. An insult. Cold ambivalence. Whatever it was, he’d take it. He was too raw from arguing with Joe to do anything else.
“Nathaniel,” Beto said. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “What I said at dinner. I shouldn’t have—” He grimaced and frowned, frustrated. “I want more for you. I always thought it would happen sooner, I guess. Before I…” Beto looked away, toward Sofia. “She looks good, doesn’t she? Stuff like this makes her shine.” His eyes softened. “Like the sun.”
Nathan studied his father’s face. He tried to see past Beto’s wistful smile to the motive behind his confession. Was it guilt? Regret? Nathan would take anything that wasn’t disappointment.
Beto clapped a hand on Nathan’s shoulder and gently squeezed. Then he left to join his wife. Nathan spun blindly in the opposite direction, into a nearby hallway. He caught a glimpse of a woman slipping into his mother’s office, then stopped short and locked eyes with Matt Abbott.