Page 36 of Double Puck

"Champagne?" she offers, holding out a slender flute of bubbles.

"Thank you."

I take the glass, and sip like a lady. The bubbles practically melt on my tongue, sharp with a citrus finish as the grand double doors swing open in front of me.

This is how it works in my world.

The performance begins before the first guest steps through the door.

Inside, everything sparkles. Literally.

The polished marble floor glows underfoot, reflecting the champagne towers glistening in the middle of the room. I move slowly, looking for a familiar face, only to find strange women in gowns that look like they required entire teams of seamstresses to create.

And then I see her.

Diana Madden. My mother.

She’s glowing, as always, in an ice-blue satin gown fitted perfectly to her still-slender figure. Delicate diamond bracelets glimmer at her wrists, the ones my father chose himself for their thirtieth anniversary, which Mom tells anyone who pauses long enough to admire them.

“Darcy!”

Her eyes light up when she sees me, and she crosses the room with genuine delight.

Mom has always loved me. I know that.

At eight, she straightened my shoulders before every ballet recital. At sixteen, she made me repeat a French greeting until it sounded effortless. And now, at twenty-eight, she can apparently still spot a loose hairpin from across a ballroom.

Diana Madden simply believes self-improvement is a love language.

“Darling, you look stunning.” Her hands frame my face before one immediately disappears into my hair. “Oh. Hold still.”

“Mom.”

“One pin is loose.”

She fixes it with two quick movements and steps back.

“There.” Her smile returns. “Now you're perfect.”

A hand settles at her waist before she can begin inspecting the rest of me.

Charles Madden looks as if an expensive tailor constructs him every morning. His tuxedo is black, his silvering hair is perfectly neat, and the champagne flute he passes my mother is exactly the one she would have chosen for herself.

She accepts it without looking and tilts her head for the kiss he places against her temple.

Yes, that's my parents. They're terrifyingly compatible.

My father turns to me. “Darcy. You made excellent time.”

“Hello to you too.”

“Hello, darling.” He kisses my cheek. “The traffic from Beachside is terrible.”

“He checked it three times,” Mom says. "He always worries that organization won't let you walk out the door on time."

Dad ignores her and lifts a glass from a passing tray for me. “Your mother tells me the Bears sold out their last game.”

“We did. It was only one game, but it's still—”