“Watch your mouth,” she said, and for a moment her Chicago accent came out. Then she pulled out a dress and showed it to me.
I had to admit, it was actually nice. Marc Jacobs does good stuff that isn’t too flashy and embarrassing but still manages to be pretty. My mother had selected a color-blocked twill sheath dress that was dark blue on top and green from the waist down. It had an empire waist, which looks fine on me because I’ve got no curves to speak of. The straight up-and-down thing suits me just perfectly.
“How much was it?” I asked suspiciously.
“You are your father’s daughter,” she said with a sigh, rolling her eyes. “Four hundred.”
“For that?” I was incredulous. “I mean, it’s pretty, but it’s so simple. It probably cost seventy-five cents to make. And the three-year-old in Indonesia who sewed it probably made, like, a nickel.”
“It’s perfect,” my mother said. “And you’re going to wear it.”
Of course, then I wanted to wear literally anything but the dress. My mother’s tone made me feel for a moment I’d actually prefer wrapping myself in toilet paper and sashaying across the lawn. But the truth was that I looked good in it. For the first time in years, I let her brush my hair. She pulled it into a simple low ponytail and wrapped a piece of hair around the elastic band to hide it, then curled the tail with one of her eighteen thousand beauty appliances. She would’ve put makeup on me herself, but I howled in protest when she pulled out the medieval-looking eyelash-curling contraption. I just used some of her Guerlain mascara and put on a little lip gloss. She insisted I borrow a pair of simple pearl earrings and a strand of pearls. I drew the line at heels, so she gave me a pair of dark blue Ferragamo jelly flats with a peep toe. I watched her try unsuccessfully to hide her horror at my lack of a pedicure, but I guess she figured she’d won the sartorial battle and didn’t need to push her luck by demanding I paint my toenails.
We both looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror inside her enormous walk-in closet. For the first time since I got those highlights back when I was twelve, I saw my mother’s eyes light up with pride.
“See,” she said triumphantly. “You really can be a pretty girl when you try.”
“Um,” I said. “Thanks.” It was as close to a genuine compliment as I was going to get from her.
I waited in the kitchen and watched through the window as the first hour of the party unfolded. Thankfully, my mother was holed up in her home office on a conference call with her lawyer about something or other and didn’t nag me about arriving on time. Everybody knows you don’t get to a party right when the invitation says it starts. You run the risk of being the first person there, with no one to talk to, which is even worse than getting there when all the other people have gathered. Then at least you might have the chance to strike up a conversation with someone you know.
Of course, it occurred to me that I might not know anyone at this party. I tried my best to make out the people parking in Jacinta’s long driveway and along our street, and I thought I saw some of the regulars from the clambakes at Baxley’s. I grabbed my mother’s binoculars (she claims to be a birdwatcher, but I think she just spies on people across the pond) and peered through them.
There were the Fitzwilliams sisters, Audrey and Katharine, who were notable for being Kennedy cousins and for getting drunk at every clambake or garden party I’d ever seen them at. Their parents never seemed to notice or care, which is probably why they kept drinking. They had each paired off with a Stetler brother, neither of whose first names I could recall, and they all made a beeline for the bar tent as soon as they rounded the corner of the house and entered the backyard. None of them seemed particularly surprised or delighted by the carnival surroundings. I saw Audrey Fitzwilliams give the Ferris wheel a dispirited glance before downing the first of what would undoubtedly be many shots that evening. One of the Stetler brothers put his hand on her butt as if that were perfectly normal public behavior.
I didn’t recognize any of the other people streaming into the backyard. The girls all wore pretty dresses and sported perfect tans, while the boys wore polo shirts or short-sleeved button-downs with khaki pants or shorts.
“Naomi!” My mother’s voice behind me startled me. I turned around, and she folded her arms in disapproval. “Are you going to just stand there and watch, or are you going to join in the fun?”
I looked at the clock, which read 7:55 p.m.
“I guess it’s time for me to join in the fun,” I said. “But I might be back in five minutes, if it sucks.”
“Give it an hour at the very least,” Mom said. “Anything less would be terribly rude.”
She stood on the back deck and watched me as I walked across the lawn and, my heart beating extra-fast, rang the bell at Jacinta Trimalchio’s castle door. In the gathering darkness, the lights shone bright through the windows. Though I could hear a crowd chattering inside the house, no one answered the door. Nervously, I looked across the lawn at my mother, who gestured that I should ring the bell again. I obeyed, but still no response. Somewhat relieved, I was about to turn around and head home when the door swung wide open, and Jeff Byron greeted me.
“Jeff!” I said in surprise.
“Naomi!” he said, mocking me—but with a big flirtatious grin. “Come join the circus.” He put his arm around me and put his hand on my back, leading me inside.
“Oh my God,” I said, staring at the luxurious, crowded foyer in which we found ourselves. “This is—”
“Tacky? Fun? Ridiculous?”
“All of it,” I said in wonder.
It was a soaring three-story foyer with a white marble floor and an enormous crystal chandelier that had been fitted with pink lightbulbs. A huge white marble butterfly staircase dominated the space, its white marble balustrade resplendent with bright red bunting. Everywhere I looked, I saw red roses: garlands of them hanging from the chandelier, draped around gilt-framed mirrors, peeking out from behind the ears of New York’s wealthiest young women. White-jacketed cater waiters with red flowers in their lapels circled among the dozens of guests hanging out in the foyer, offering raw oysters and fried oysters, glasses of red wine and glasses of white wine, flutes of pink champagne, and bits of fruits and meats and cheeses intermingled in complicated, fancy haute cuisine ways that my mother would’ve identified and judged immediately. And up on the landing of the butterfly staircase, where the stairs met the second floor of the house, sat a white-and-red-clad full band banging out old-fashioned music that sounded like something from Skags’s other favorite Netflix show, Boardwalk Empire.
“How many people our age do you know who’d throw a party set to Jazz Age standards?” Jeff said, grabbing two glasses of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and handing me a flute.
“Is that what that music is?” I asked, taking a big gulp of my champagne. I’m not much of a drinker, but the dazzling lights and sounds and colors had me feeling like some kind of relaxing substance was in order. I made a split-second vow to myself that I wasn’t just going to be Naomi the confession receptacle at this party. I was going to—participate, whatever that meant. Champagne seemed like a start.
“Yup. I know it sounds pretentious, but I love jazz.” He pressed his hand into my lower back and led me up the staircase, so we could stand closer to the band. “This is ‘Always’ by Irving Berlin,” he said into my ear. I shivered a bit and drew a little closer to him.
“How do you know so much about music?” I asked.