I looked at Jaime. “Will you?”
“Of course I will.” Her face softened, and she tipped her head onto my shoulder. “I’m sorry. You know I love you, Gogo. I just want you to be happy. If you think Tripp is the one, then go for it. I’ll always be here for you.”
“Thanks. I’m still thinking it over.” I checked my phone and noticed the time. “Oh, shoot. I better get over to that thing for my father.”
“A dinner thing?” Jaime picked up her drink.
“No, just drinks and dessert with some donors who’ve written fat checks to the campaign.”
“How’s the campaign going?” Claire asked.
“Fine, I think. I haven’t been involved much since my politics are a bit different than my father’s, but we don’t talk about that.”
Jaime shook her head. “God, I love your family. Have fun tonight. Will Tripp be there?”
I put a twenty on the bar and finished off my drink. “Not sure. But I know Deuce is a major donor, so it’s possible. How do I look?”
They glanced at my sleeveless navy blue sheath, which I wore with nude heels and my favorite pearl necklace. My blowout was smooth, my nails were manicured, my legs were shaved. My lipstick would be reapplied in the car, since my grandmother had taught me never to apply cosmetics in public.
“Perfect,” said Claire. “Very Grace Kelly.”
Jaime nodded. “Classic Margot.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” After giving them each a kiss on the cheek, I walked out the back to the parking lot.
As I drove to the large private home on a gated street in Grosse Pointe where the fundraiser was being held, I had a strange feeling in my stomach. I can’t say it was butterflies exactly, more like a gut instinct that something in my life was about to change. I get a similar feeling when I cut more than an inch off my hair at the salon, like I’m sort of scared but also sort of exhilarated.
After pulling into the drive and handing my keys to the valet—who gazed longingly at the pristine, powder blue 1972 Mercedes my grandmother had given me last year when she finally decided to stop driving—I entered the house.
The strange feeling intensified when I saw Tripp standing to my right in the cavernous living room. It was so large, even the nine foot Steinway in one corner didn’t seem out of place. Sofas, chaises, and love seats were arranged in several conversational groupings, and the furniture, drapery, and even the rug had that faded, slightly shabby look that old money homes have. The look that says, We’re terribly wealthy but we don’t get rid of anything with a day’s use left in it, and we don’t like things that are shiny and new.
I saw my father shaking hands with someone near the fireplace and my mother nursing a G & T, probably her third, on one of the sofas, but I headed toward Tripp, doing my best to will that edgy feeling into butterflies. He was chatting with a group of women near the window, and they were clearly enthralled by whatever he was saying. As I got closer, he took a step back, and I saw that he wasn’t alone. Amber was there too, wearing a dress that nearly fit, and she was holding out her left hand toward the little group, as if she were showing off a—
Oh no.
Oh no, he didn’t.
He couldn’t have.
He wouldn’t even.
But he had.
And the ring on her finger was the exact same one Tripp had proposed to me with last night.
“It was, like, so romantic,” she was gushing. “He came over in the middle of the night. Said he just couldn’t wait any longer because he knew for sure I was the one.”
I nearly gagged. Backing away unseen and shaking with rage, I found the bar and ordered a martini. (One good thing about people with old money, there’s never a shortage of good gin.)
In a daze, I took my drink out onto the terrace, where my older brother, Buck, spotted me and roped me into schmoozing with a bunch of men in suits whose names I forgot immediately. All I could think of as I stood there, drinking and half-listening to them banter about politics and boats, was what an asshole Tripp was. He must have gone right from me to her last night. What the fuck was wrong with him?
Eventually the men wandered off to refill their scotch glasses, and Buck turned to me. “What’s with you? You were totally mute during that conversation, and your expression makes Muffy’s Resting Bitch Face look downright pleasant.”
“Sorry. I was thinking about something.”
He grinned cockily before tipping back his whiskey on the rocks. “Let me guess. Tripp’s engagement? Don’t let it bother you.”