“Zoe, this looks incredible.” His breath smells sweet like spun sugar.
“You were right, is that what you’re looking for?” I tease. Henry had suggested the NYPL for the venue in the first place.
The rotunda looks better than I could have imagined, better than my silly sketches. I turn in place, absorbing the details, the elegance I desire so much—the six-person tables, perfect for intimate conversation, the crystal centerpieces that mimic the trees, white reaching branches thrust toward the ceiling, balancing a smattering of glass-winged butterflies. Each table is adorned with greens, small woody bundles nestled inside frosted mason jars, and blooming baby lilies. The overall effect is of being thrust into an enchanted forest, minus the wood sprites. Everything glittery, white and green, glass sparkling.
I think to call Lydia, the flowers look amazing. La Fleur d’Elise did the event, as a favor to me, although my conversations with Lydia had been all business. A familiar pang of loss hits me.
The walls are tastefully hung with information on CARE, black-and-white photos of past events, less elegant but more real, as the wealthy often claim to want to be real, a concept that has always made me laugh. People claim to want authenticity, another word that is bandied about at these events, yet men like Norman Krable, on the short list of the richest men of New York, are never seen on the new playgrounds or at any orphan shelter, outside of the ribbon cutting. I try very hard not to let this bother me. But yet, the black and whites hang, real and authentic, with wide-open smiles of parentless children, black and white, Asian and Indian, Portuguese and Spanish. Children who don’t understand racism or hate, only the cool rejection of a foster family’s dismissal. Some of them I know by name, but not all, and at that juncture I have to wonder if I’m any better than the Norman Krables of the world.
“Zoe, I think everything has come together beautifully.” Francesca Martin is walking briskly toward me, her heels clipping against the marble floor. “One thing, we had chosen white linens, but here, look.” She leads me to a table in the corner and the white is stark, blinding and rough, in the blue lighting. The table next to it absorbs the blue effortlessly, the lights softened somehow by the linen, but I can’t make out the color. “It’s a lavender linen. I know!—” she holds up her hand and shakes her head. “Lavender is outdated, believe me I know. It’s like three springs ago, and I honestly have no idea if it’s ever coming back, but I think with the blue lighting the white is just too much! You can’t even tell it’s lavender. It’s so offset by the green and blue.”
“It’s so late for a last-minute change.” I’m skeptical, but Francesca isn’t the event coordinator at NYPL without reason. Her instincts are sharp, impeccable. I agree and one of Francesca’s hired hands changes linens. The brightness of the room softens to a deep, rich glow.
The benefit is a relatively small one—only two hundred people. It’s not a formal sit-down dinner, but a simple cocktail hour with a rotating array of hors d’oeuvres all chosen to reflect the enchanted forest theme of the party: wild mushroom ragout, spring pea puree on crostini, diver scallops with foie gras butter, bison tartare. The standing tables in the corner hold silver trays, lined with Stilton pastries and raspberry chutney, strawberry ricotta tartlets with apple blossom honey.
My mouth waters, but my stomach flips in nervous protest.
“Simply stunning, darling.” Henry hovers next to the three-piece orchestra, a flute of champagne in each hand. He hands one to me and gives me one of his rare but dazzling smiles.
Proud. At this moment, he is proud.
The evening turns with unstoppable speed. I am shuttled from one table to the next, a conveyor belt for mingling. I stay mostly quiet, nod and smile. I recognize a few people but Henry knows everyone, his arm snaked protectively around my waist. It’s my event, yet somehow, Henry still runs the show. I’m appraised always, the unasked question why hovering on everyone’s lips. With every charm, every joke, every time the crowd rumbles with laughter at my husband, the women, especially the women, look at me, heads slightly cocked, a small flick of their eyes. Barely noticeable. Why you? The question is never verbalized. Now that I’ve assimilated, the men are more accepting.