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One
Violet Victoria Townsend was plenty aware that she was the very epitome of a stock character for snob.
Ask any sketch artist to draw a pampered Upper East Side princess, and Violet would skip straight to the top of the suspect list. Shiny, bouncy hair? Check. Expertly applied yet barely noticeable makeup? Check. Pretty, but not in the “look again” kind of way? Yup.
Her nails were never chipped, her ends never split. Her outfits tended toward neutrals and were always paired with a strand of simple, understated pearls around her neck. Even her home address was eye-rollingly cliché. She’d lived in the same apartment off Madison Avenue since age eleven, when her grandmother took her in.
Did that make Violet a caricature? Perhaps. But a self-aware one. Violet had heard all the Blair Waldorf, Charlotte York, and Holly Golightly comparisons and had made peace with it a long time ago.
So, yeah. She could and often did rock a headband. She had a purse dog named after a luxury brand of handbag (Coco, as in Chanel). Did she sometimes summer in the Hamptons? Indeed, and she was guilty of using summer as a verb.
But Violet Townsend was also kind to strangers, considerate of others’ feelings, and generous with her time. She always brought the perfect hostess gift to a party. Her brunches offered bountiful mimosas with high-quality bacon and vegetarian options.
Violet was also heavily involved with a half-dozen charities, volunteered as a tutor every Wednesday afternoon, and was adamantly opposed to gossip, though still somehow found herself knowing everything about everyone.
Not that she expected a medal for any of this. It was just that she figured if she was lucky enough to be born a privileged heiress, she sure as hell better be a good and generous person to go with it.
Which was why, when her late grandmother’s best friend had commanded Violet’s presence on a Sunday afternoon, Violet hadn’t hesitated to reschedule her longstanding Sunday date with her best friend.
Edith Rhodes was a precise, specific sort of woman. Violet would know; she’d been serving as Edith’s right hand of sorts ever since graduating college. But while Edith was a demanding, high-powered CEO, she was no diva. She planned everything down to the minute, believed that urgent was synonymous with ill-prepared.
In other words, not the sort of woman to cry wolf. If Edith needed Violet now, it meant now. And that something was amiss.
The January afternoon was sunny but brisk as Violet made the short walk to Edith’s Park Avenue home. She was perfectly polished as ever, because if Edith had taught Violet anything in the few years since she’d taken her under her wing, it was that emergencies were best approached with lipstick and a great pair of heels.
Violet was dressed in burgundy pumps, gray slacks, a white blouse, and, of course, the ever-present pearls that had become her trademark of sorts, even if their legacy was a bit sad.
But Violet didn’t like to think about that.
“Good afternoon, Alvin,” she said, stepping into the foyer and smiling at Edith’s live-in butler, maintenance man, and all-around loyal companion.
He looked pointedly at Violet’s feet, where Coco was usually happily prancing around her ankles. “And where is my little lady?”
“At home, getting her beauty sleep. She hates the cold, and her best sweaters are dirty,” she said with a wink, though her little Yorkie really did have a pile of doggy-sized sweaters in Violet’s laundry basket.
She gave Alvin an assessing once-over. “How are we today?”
He took her jacket with one hand and patted his slightly rounded belly with the other, looking forlorn. “It’s the stomach, dear. Probably an ulcer. Could be much worse.”
“Mmm.” She made a sympathetic noise, even as she tucked her tongue into her cheek. “I’m so sorry to hear that. What did Dr. Howell say?”
He frowned at her, looking just the slightest bit sulky, closer to six than his actual sixty.
Violet waited. Patient.
His frown deepened a little as he huffed, relenting. “Gas,” he admitted. “But the doctor seemed off his game. I may go back in a week when he’s got his head on straight.”
“Of course,” Violet said. She pointed at his foot. “And the toe?”
Last week, Alvin had self-diagnosed a sore toe as gangrene, for which amputation was the only likely cure, even as Edith had reminded him he’d stubbed that very toe on the sideboard in the dining room.
He blinked, no doubt struggling to keep track of his many ailments, then a little sheepishly said, “Oh. The toe’s better.”
“Wonderful.” Violet smiled. “I’m glad you got to keep it after all.”
He narrowed his eyes, then waggled a scolding finger at her. “When you were little, you didn’t used to sass me.”
“Who’s sassing?” she asked innocently, kissing his cheek as she moved toward the parlor. He was an exhausting hypochondriac, but he was her hypochondriac. “Edith in here?”
