Amelia
The party is by any objective measure, a triumph.
The flowers are perfect. The champagne is cold. My sister Cecily is radiant in a cream dress made specifically by her favorite designer, and her fiancé, Connor, is standing beside her with the polished ease of a man who has spent his entire life being exactly where money expects him to be.
My mother is in her element. I can tell by the way she moves through the room, touching arms, leaning close, delivering those small targeted smiles she keeps in reserve for occasions when she needs people to feel individually noticed. She's good at it. She's been good at it since before I was born, and watching her work has always been a little like watching a professional do something I could never quite master.
Cecily is twenty-four. She met Connor six months ago at a friend's wedding in Connecticut and by the time she came home she was already talking about him like he wasthe one. My parents adore him. He's American, which is mildly exotic, and his family has the kind of money that doesn't advertise itself, which they find tremendously reassuring. He's also, incidentally, the sort of handsome that photographs well, says the right things in any given situation, and never seems to have an opinion that might make anyone uncomfortable.
Cecily loves him. I can see that clearly, and it matters to me more than anything else about this evening.
What also matters, with increasing urgency, is that I find somewhere to stand that is not within conversational range of my Aunt Prudence.
I've been avoiding her for forty minutes, but It's a small room.
"Amelia." She materializes at my elbow and I give a little start before masking my annoyance with a small smile. "Don't you look lovely. Is that the dress you wore to Charlotte's summer party?"
"It might be."
"You should treat yourself. A woman your age ought to have a wardrobe that turns heads." She pauses, doing the thing with her eyebrows that means she's about to say something she's been rehearsing. "Have you spoken to Oliver Fortwell this evening? He's just joined his father's firm. Very eligible."
"I haven't, no."
"I could introduce you." Her brows lift just enough to tell me this isn’t a polite offer to further my social networking; it’s a very strong suggestion.
"Please don't."
She looks at me with the expression of a woman who finds me bewildering and slightly exhausting, which is fair, because I find myself bewildering and slightly exhausting at family parties too. "You know, Amelia, your sister has found a wonderful man. There's no reason you couldn't do the same if you simply made a bit more effort."
The champagne in my glass is very good. I focus on that.
"Effort," I say, pleasantly. "Right."
"I only mean that you can be a little intimidating, darling. Men like to feel wanted, not frightened into submission.”
"I'll bear that in mind." I sip my champagne, hoping that will put an end to the conversation.
She sighs, but pats my arm and moves away, satisfied she's done her duty. I turn toward the window and breathe through my nose, watching the garden lights reflecting in the black glass and remind myself that I chose to come tonight. Cecily is my sister and I love her and she wanted me here, which means I am staying until at least ten o'clock and I’m not going to say anything regrettable to anyone, including Oliver Hartwell, who is currently telling a story near the fireplace that seems to require a lot of gesturing.
My mother finds me twenty minutes later.
She has a man with her who looks to be in his mid-thirties, sandy hair, navy jacket. He's smiling already, which is always a bad sign, because men who smile before they've been introduced are usually men who've been briefed about you.
"Amelia, this is James Durham. His family is in the oil business." She says this as though it’s a personality trait. "James, my elder daughter."
"Lovely to meet you," James says, with the practiced warmth of someone who has attended a lot of these events. He has a drawl that tells me he must be from somewhere far from here, south, Texas maybe…
"You too," I say with a polite smile, because I was raised well. The sign that is building in my chest is difficult to press down. But I manage it, barely.
My mother watches us with the calibrated attention of a woman who has arranged seventeen of these introductions in the past six months. She’s keeping score.
Then she's summoned by someone near the door, and for approximately four minutes James and I conduct a conversationthat covers his work, his love of American football, and how he enjoys coming north to hunt once a year.
I smile and nod the whole way through. But something in my gut tells me he doesn’t mean hunting in the traditional sense.
By the time James has excused himself, my father has arrived at my side.
"You could try," he says mildly.
