Donovan drops Marv, Claire, and me off at the historic Hickory’s at 7:30 p.m. I’m told it’s the perfect time to arrive for a party that starts at seven. The restaurant has closed its doors to the public in order to host this private cocktail party for Chester Chadwick’s eightieth birthday. I don’t know anything about Chester, other than that he’s eighty, but I suspect the party will be filled with people like Old Edie and Harold. Pushing walkers and saying, “What? I can’t hear you. Speak up,” even as you’re shouting in their ears.
Hickory’s is exactly what the name implies. Aged wood floors, heavy high-top tables, wainscoting, rich velvet seating, and one of the longest, most elaborate bars I’ve ever seen.
I’m surprised to see people my age. I take a glass of red wine from a passing tray and hold the shiny clutch in my left hand. My ring and pinky fingers are as numb as always, but my first appointment with the orthopedic surgeon is next week. I’m optimistic he can repair my hand and make the ugly scars just a thin white line that will diminish with time. I hope I can wear short sleeves by the summer.
Marv wanders off as if he’s afraid I’ll have “emotional outbursts” or “display inappropriate coping mechanisms.” He leaves Claire on “social norms” duty and she begins to discreetly point people out to me. “There’s Sloane Palmer and her brother Mitch, talking to the Sternbachers next to the hanging fern. Your father is speaking with the Hunts, Tom and Ann.”
“Oliver’s folks?”
“And Meredith’s. They’ve been our friends and neighbors since you were a baby. Look, Jack and Alda Schwartz are here, and I’m sure their daughter Margot is here somewhere, too. Yes, there she is.” Claire points her wineglass toward a cluster of women who look to be my age. They’re standing next to a high tabletop filled with cocktail glasses.
“Do they know me?”
Claire gives a slight nod as she takes a sip of wine.
I raise my glass and look at them over the rim. From where I’m standing, they all have the same look about them. Slender, pale socialites with hair that is either pulled back in severe buns or blunt cut with a razor-sharp edge. Minimal makeup, maximum wealth. Most are blonde like me, but no one has the bounce and curl I do. I’m not like them.
I’m from Texas, where a girl wouldn’t be caught dead with flat hair. If she didn’t come by a pile of hair naturally, you best trust and believe she’d reach for hairpieces and back-comb a glorious creation. Then she’d spray it down with super-hold so it wouldn’t move if her dance partner got wild and swung her around the bar.
One by one the socialites notice me from across the room and give little waves. I wonder if they’ve heard that I fell on my head during a storm on the Amalfi Coast and have amnesia.
“Oh, there are the Digbys. We should avoid them for just a bit longer.”
“Why?”
“You were engaged to their son.”
“Was that Blake?”
“No, Roland. But I imagine the Ellsworths are here too.” She stands on tippy-toe and scans the crowd. “I don’t see them.”
“How many times was I engaged, for cryin’ out loud?”
“Just the two. We don’t count the proposals you turned down.”
“Of course not.” I wonder if Oliver was one of those proposals and that’s why he hates me.
“Edie!” I turn as a woman in a red silk capelet dress walks toward me. “You’re back.”
“Yes.”
She leans forward and air-kisses my cheek. “I heard you have amnesia. Poor dear.”
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“Sloane. You’ve done something new to your hair.”
After Sloane is Margot. “If there is anything I can do, give me a call.”
I think she might actually mean it.
Next is Royce. “I’m so happy to see you,” she gushes, pressing her cheek to mine. “Love the accent.”
I don’t know her or what she means, but I’m going to add her to my list of people who think I’m faking. Right beneath Royce I’m definitely adding Greer, too. “So clever of you to reinvent yourself just when you were getting stale like some of us.” She leans back to give a laugh like she’s joking, but she’s not.
“Bless your heart,” I say through a smile.
I do have to say that more than half the socialites seem nice enough. They chat about their charitable work and foundations and tell me they don’t like to be called socialites because they have jobs. Mostly in the fashion industry.