A limo? Dear God. The most glamorous mode of transport I’ve ever experienced up until now is a Toyota Prius.
Teresa hands me a bejeweled clutch bag. “Have a great time, Miss Crane.”
In a daze, I follow Daryl out of my apartment as Teresa, Peter, and Venus wish me well.
And as I make my way down to the car, all I have echoing in my brain is a silent scream as I prepare to jump off a cliff.
*
The incredible building at 583 Park Avenue is one of those venues I’ve heard about over the years but have never been rich or well-connected enough to visit. Even though I’ve heard tales of the extravagant galas in the glamorous ballroom, being here is on a whole other level of, Oh my God.
The entire double-height room is swathed in gauzy white fabric, and the giant crystal chandelier that hovers fifty feet above the action casts infinite tiny rainbows around the room. The crowd is a sea of men in crisp dinner suits and glamorous ladies of all ages, and I’ve never felt more like a fish out of water in my entire life.
I take a deep breath and squeeze my fancy clutch purse like a stress-relief toy as I look around the room.
So, this is how the other half lives, huh? Good to know.
The ballroom is enormous, and even though I estimate there are about five-hundred people milling around, they’re dwarfed by the massive space. On the screen is a slide announcing that this is the Valentine Foundation Annual Fundraising Gala. I’ve hear of this foundation. It works to help low income and underprivileged women gain training and employment. From what I’ve heard, it’s a fantastic cause, and it’s lovely that it seems to be patronized by the largest group of attractive people I’ve ever seen.
I self-consciously run my hand over my hair, grateful I’ve been professionally styled. I might not feel like I belong with this blue-blooded crowd, but at least I look the part.
A slick team of waiters moves between groups of people distributing fancy, microscopic canapés and sparkling glasses of champagne.
When a waiter passes near me, I snag myself some bubbly. God knows I’m going to need to calm my nerves if I have any chance of pulling off this charade. I down the champagne in three swallows and deposit my glass on a nearby table.
“Miss Crane?” I look around to see an older lady approaching me, beyond glamorous in a silver sheath that matches her silver hair. “I’m so glad you could make it. I’m Vivian Roberts, one of the patrons of the Valentine Foundation. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
She gives me a warm smile and holds out her hand, and though it feels wrong to tarnish it with my peasant flesh, I do it anyway, if only to be polite.
“You’re so beautiful,” I say then realize I sound ridiculous. “I mean, it’s lovely to meet you, too.”
She lets go of my hand to snag some more champagne from a nearby waiter and passes me one. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I don’t think Maxwell has ever gushed about a woman before, but he can’t seem to stop talking about you.”
“Well, that’s so kind of you to say. I notice you and Maxwell share a last name. Are you related?”
She shakes her head. “Not technically, but he feels like my son. I understand you’re doing a story on him.”
“Yes. He’s certainly a fascinating subject.”
She gets a wistful expression on her face. “He is. And one of the best men I know.”
Okay, lady, don’t oversell it.
I vaguely wonder if that was planned or if she’s going off-script.
“Is Maxwell here, yet?” I ask, as I search the crowd. I’m not eager to see him or anything. Just curious. After all, I should thank him for all the presents.
The tiniest raise of Vivian’s eyebrow tells me she thinks I like him. Well, I suppose I don’t dislike him, so she’s half right.
“He’s speaking with some of our committee members right now, but he should be finished shortly. He asked me to take you up to the gallery to wait.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Follow me.”
She leads me to the side of the room where a wide staircase leads to the horseshoe-shaped balcony. I’m grateful that not only are there fewer people up here, but it also gives a fantastic view of the event below. She leads me over to the balustrade near a group of women who are standing and chatting.
“Would you mind waiting here for just a few minutes?” Vivian asks. “I’ll let Maxwell know you’ve arrived.”
“Great. Thank you.”
I take a brief glance at the women beside me. My God, they all look like entrants in the Mrs. America pageant. Gorgeous dresses, beautiful hair. Faces that are so smooth and wrinkle free, I’m betting they’ve had some sort of cosmetic enhancement.
A perfect primp of princesses.
I’m about to turn away, when one of the blonde ladies catches my eye.
Holy shit!
It’s Marla Massey. The Marla Massey who inspired this whole investigation. I study the ladies with her. Could some of them also be Max’s clients?
I’m concentrating so hard on trying to identify them, I jump when a perky voice behind me says, “Oh, my God, Eden! Hiiiii!” I turn to see Joanna there, beaming at me. She’s wearing a blush-pink gown with a plunging neckline. Nice if you have the boobs, I suppose.
“It’s so great to see you!” she says as she takes in my full appearance. Her jaw drops in disbelief. “Holy crap, woman, you look amaaaaaaaazing. What happened? Did Asha help you?”
I’m slightly insulted that she doesn’t think I could have put this ensemble together by myself. I mean, we’ve only hung out couple of times. How dare she already know about my complete lack of style?
Joanna reads my face and laughs. “Sorry, I just meant that I’m not used to you looking this attractive. If it weren’t for the color of your hair, I never would have recognized you.”
I smile. “You’re wonderful for a girl’s ego, Joanna. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Actually, no.”
“Huh. This is my surprised face.”
She laughs and pushes my arm. “You’re funny.” After giving me another onceover, she says, “What are you doing here, anyway? I didn’t think this was your kind of event.”
“I was invited by a friend.” Not sure how true that statement is, but I’m going with it. “What about you? This isn’t really the kind of place I’d expect to find an assistant from a publishing company.”
Joanna gestures to the group beside me. “The brunette in the red gown is my cousin, Alice.”
I squint, trying to place her. “Have I met your cousin? She looks familiar.”
“Oh, you’ve probably seen her in the news. She got married a few months ago to that oil magnate’s son. Cristos whatshisname.”
The penny drops. “Cristos Callas? Holy crap, Joanna, your cousin is Alice Kennedy?”
She shrugs. “Yeah.”
No wonder she’s so well connected. Not only is Alice a congressmen’s daughter, but her brother is a best-selling author. And yes, they’re related to those Kennedys.
I gesture for Joanna to lean closer, then whisper, “Joanna, you know how I’m looking into the whole Mister Romance thing?”