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Olga said: "That'll make their eyes pop." Olga liked it when Daisy dressed to kill. Perhaps it reminded her of her youth.
Eva said: "Daisy, if they're
all so snobbish, why do you want to go to the party?"
"Charlie Farquharson will be there, and I'm thinking of marrying him," Daisy said.
"Are you serious?"
Olga said emphatically: "He's a great catch."
Eva said: "What's he like?"
"Absolutely adorable," Daisy said. "Not the handsomest boy in Buffalo, but sweet and kind, and rather shy."
"He sounds very different from you."
"It's the attraction of opposites."
Olga spoke again. "The Farquharsons are among the oldest families in Buffalo."
Eva raised her dark eyebrows. "Snobby?"
"Very," Daisy said. "But Charlie's father lost all his money in the Wall Street crash, then died--killed himself, some say--so they need to restore the family fortunes."
Eva looked shocked. "You're hoping he'll marry you for your money?"
"No. He'll marry me because I will bewitch him. But his mother will accept me for my money."
"You say you will bewitch him. Does he know about any of this?"
"Not yet. But I think I might make a start this afternoon. Yes, this is definitely the right dress."
Daisy wore the baby blue and Eva the navy-and-white stripes. By the time they got ready they were late.
Daisy's mother would not have a chauffeur. "I married my father's chauffeur, and it ruined my life," she sometimes said. She was terrified Daisy might do something similar--that was why she was so keen on Charlie Farquharson. If she needed to go anywhere in her creaking 1925 Stutz she made Henry, the gardener, take off his rubber boots and put on a black suit. But Daisy had her own car, a red Chevrolet Sport Coupe.
Daisy liked driving, loved the power and speed of it. They headed south out of the city. She was almost sorry it was only five or six miles to the beach.
As she drove she thought about life as Charlie's wife. With her money and his status they would become the leading couple in Buffalo society. At their dinner parties the table settings would be so elegant that people would gasp in delight. They would have the biggest yacht in the harbor, and throw onboard parties for other wealthy, fun-loving couples. People would yearn for an invitation from Mrs. Charles Farquharson. No charity function would be a success without Daisy and Charlie at the top table. In her head she watched a movie of herself, in a ravishing Paris gown, walking through a crowd of admiring men and women, smiling graciously at their compliments.
She was still daydreaming when they reached their destination.
The city of Buffalo was in upstate New York, near the Canadian border. Woodlawn Beach was a mile of sand on the shore of Lake Erie. Daisy parked and they walked across the dunes.
Fifty or sixty people were already there. These were the adolescent children of the Buffalo elite, a privileged group who spent their summers sailing and water-skiing in the daytime and going to parties and dances at night. Daisy greeted the people she knew, which was just about everyone, and introduced Eva around. They got glasses of punch. Daisy tasted it cautiously: some of the boys would think it hilarious to spike the drink with a couple of bottles of gin.
The party was for Dot Renshaw, a sharp-tongued girl whom no one wanted to marry. The Renshaws were an old Buffalo family, like the Farquharsons, but their fortune had survived the crash. Daisy made sure to approach the host, Dot's father, and thank him. "I'm sorry we're late," she said. "I lost track of time!"
Philip Renshaw looked her up and down. "That's a very short skirt." Disapproval vied with lasciviousness in his expression.
"I'm so glad you like it," Daisy replied, pretending he had paid her a straightforward compliment.
"Anyway, it's good that you're here at last," he went on. "A photographer from the Sentinel is coming and we must have some pretty girls in the picture."
Daisy muttered to Eva: "So that's why I was invited. How kind of him to let me know."
Dot came up. She had a thin face with a pointed nose. Daisy always thought she looked as if she might peck you. "I thought you were going with your father to meet the president," she said.
