“You’ll be fine,” he said.
I knew as soon as I stepped inside the house that I wouldn’t be. The two-story entryway was enough to intimidate anyone, given that every square inch was covered in marble. Statues of two women in flowing togas flanked a staircase that rose up from the center of the room, splitting in the middle to soar in opposite directions. But it wasn’t the grandeur of the space that upset me; it was the lack of grandeur in my fellow guests. The people exchanging greetings and sipping glasses of lemonade wore simple white dresses and cream linen suits. My midnight-blue New York dress, with its silver trim and rows of shimmering glass beads, looked flashily out of place. I wished I could slip under the stairs and hide until the party was over.
“I’ve got it all wrong,” I murmured to Matthew. “I’m completely overdressed.”
“You look swell,” he said. “I can’t wait to show you off.”
He veered off to the right, and I followed. We passed a huge dining room that looked like a fairy-tale castle’s banquet hall, then walked into an equally enormous sitting room. A stuffed moose head loomed menacingly over haphazard groupings of armchairs and card tables. The floor was covered with at least five Oriental carpets in mismatched shades of green, red, and yellow. I’d known the Lemonts were rich, but I couldn’t imagine how much money it had taken to build such rooms, then fill them with that much furniture and art.
Matthew said dryly, “My grandfather was a great collector. Of everything.”
We emerged onto the terrace, a stretch of flagstones that ran along the back of the house, where at least a hundred guests mingled among white wicker furniture, potted bushes, and flower boxes bursting with blooms. A vibrant green lawn seemed to extend into the sparkling waters of Lake Michigan. It looked like a magazine photo of a summer resort. Not quite real.
The crowd enveloped us as soon as we walked outside. There was an atmosphere of anticipation as everyone jostled to get closer to Matthew to shake his hand or greet him. He moved determinedly through the well-wishers, introducing me simply as “Kate,” his eyes focused elsewhere. I did my best to be gracious, but it was impossible to remember anyone’s name, let alone how they knew Matthew.
“Matts!”
A woman lunged into Matthew, tossing one arm around his waist while I dodged the cigarette held in her other hand. “Where have you been? I’m so bored I could die.”
He leaned into her, his back blocking my view of their faces. She had the sort of long, lean body that every woman wishes for and so few achieve, and her cream silk dress emphasized her slender shape. She whispered something in Matthew’s ear, pressing her chest into his arm, her lips so close to his face I could have sworn she’d kissed him. Her hand ruffled his hair, and I felt a twist of unexpected jealousy. She looked like just the sort of rich, spoiled debutante Matthew claimed to dislike, yet here he was, completely under her spell. He whispered something back, and the woman swirled around to face me. Her dark-blonde hair cascaded in neat waves along either side of her face, framing round blue eyes. Her narrow lips and sharp chin gave her looks a certain severity, but she was undeniably gorgeous.
“Kate, this is my sister, Marjorie,” Matthew said.
“A pleasure to meet you,” I said.
I reached out my hand, and Marjorie waved her cigarette in the air between us. Her smile came uncomfortably close to a smirk. Though I disliked the way she fawned over Matthew, I didn’t feel the same visceral hate for Marjorie that I felt for Lakecrest. There was something fascinating about her elegant self-assurance, and I na?vely believed she’d be welcoming when she found out about the marriage. For Matthew’s sake, at least.
“Aren’t you precious!” she exclaimed. “Remind me where you’re from? Kansas?”
“Ohio.”
“I knew it was somewhere like that. A place where people are nice.” She made it sound like a disease. “Tell me. How does a sweet young thing from Ohio land a husband as hard to please as my dear brother? You must reveal all your secrets.”
Taken aback, I turned to Matthew. He looked down, embarrassed, and muttered, “I called Marjorie this morning while you were asleep.”
“A secret wedding!” Marjorie gushed with exaggerated delight. “So romantic. I must tell you, Matts, I almost begged off this boring party, but I had to see Mum’s reaction. I never thought you capable of such intrigue.”
“Kate and I didn’t want a fuss.”
Marjorie looked at me with mock concern. “Oh, I see. There’s a special delivery on the way?”
“No!” I protested, mortified. “I’m not expecting.”
Marjorie drawled, “We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”
“Stop,” Matthew admonished. Weary rather than angry.
“Heavens,” Marjorie said. “I didn’t mean to impugn the honor of your new bride. I’m tainted goods myself.” She smiled at me, with no apparent shame. “Two broken engagements, and Mum’s terrified I’ll end up an old maid.” She squeezed Matthew’s upper arm. “You haven’t told her yet, have you?”
“No,” Matthew said.
Marjorie looked me over, inhaling deeply from her cigarette. She pursed her lips into a perfectly round O and leisurely blew the smoke out.
“I wouldn’t miss this for anything,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Anyone who didn’t know them would think Marjorie was Matthew’s wife from the way she took his hand and led him forward. I tried not to mind, not to dwell on the way Marjorie was looking at Matthew and pulling him close, acting like a protective lover rather than his sister. With their fair hair and striking features, they looked like they belonged together, a perfectly matched set. Yet Marjorie was blunt and brittle, her brother unassuming and polite, and I didn’t understand how they’d turned out so differently. It wasn’t until much later that I realized those differences were only superficial, that deep down they were both Lemonts. Raised to believe they should get what they want.
A taller-than-average woman in a high-necked white lace gown was standing at the edge of the crowd, surveying the party with an air of authority. Here, at last, was the person the party revolved around, the woman who so intrigued and frightened me: Matthew’s mother, Hannah Lemont. She must have been in her late fifties or early sixties, given Matthew’s age, but time hadn’t harshened her face as it had my mother’s; Hannah had the kind of classic, even features that aged well. She watched me with the same guarded expression I’d seen on Matthew when we first met, warning me off rather than inviting me in.
“Mum, this is Kate.”
To my relief, Matthew pulled away from Marjorie and placed one hand protectively against my back. His support shored me up as I nervously stepped forward.