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I was nothing. A third-grade teacher whose entire life revolved around My Little Pony and nap time. A sad aerobics instructor whose biggest following was her Sunday morning Silver Sneakers class for seniors.
“Frances. Francesca.”
I blinked, startled out of my daze, when I realized Matthew had probably been calling my name for the last few minutes.
So I did whatever any of the Zola kids did when we were caught: deflect, deflect, deflect.
“I know you’re nervous when you use my full name,” I said. “What is it?”
Unfortunately, my brother saw straight through me. “Nothing. You just look pretty tonight.”
Suddenly I found myself blushing under Matthew’s earnest gaze, and he swallowed thickly. We were both nervous, I realized, though I wasn’t sure why he was. These were his friends, weren’t they? And Matthew, with his fancy suits and slick lawyer’s talk, always seemed more at ease with the finer things in life.
“Nonna let me borrow it,” I mumbled. “She said it reminded her of Audrey Hepburn when she bought it.” At least, that’s what Kate had said.
Matthew nodded. “Yeah, you could be on the set of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
It was the best thing he could have said.
I smiled. “Thanks, big brother.”
Both our spirits buoyed, Matthew knocked on the doors, which were immediately opened by one of the biggest men I’d ever seen. A security guard or bouncer, given the clipboard in his hand.
Security. These people were so rich they had security. We had a rusty deadbolt and a broken chain.
The man’s face brightened when he saw Matthew. “Zola. Good to see you.”
They shook hands and made some small talk while I peeked nervously through the doors. Big band music squealed off the hardwood floors along with leather-soled shoes and countless stilettos. Jewelry, sequins, and bright white smiles flashed through the din.
Oh, God. Oh God. What was I doing here?
“My sister, Francesca Zola.”
I snapped back to attention. The security guy and Matthew were both looking at me with knowing smiles.
“Got it.” The guard winked as he checked both our names off a clipboard. “Have fun,” he said and stepped aside to let us in.
I had grown up in the city, so obviously I understood the concept of the haves and have-nots. I’d seen treasures housed in every museum we had in New York while at the same time growing up in a neighborhood where my family home, with two grandparents and six kids crammed into three bedrooms and an attic, was considered a luxury by plenty. I saw that same disparity every day in my classroom, where half the kids lived in brownstones not unlike this one, and the others depended on the measly school lunches for part of their daily calorie count.
But it was one thing to know the numbers. It was another to see this kind of wealth up close.
I couldn’t help but stare. The marble-lined foyer opened into an enormous living room centered around a house-sized fireplace. The room itself was actually three, flowing seamlessly into a dining room for twelve and the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen. The furniture was a mix of classic mid-century pieces combined with punches of color and textures, including several mural-sized pieces of modern art on the walls.
All around were tasteful holiday decorations—lighted garland hung from the ceiling, across the fireplace, and over the balustrade. In the living room window was the largest Christmas tree I’d ever seen outside of a mall or Rockefeller Center, lit with a vintage glass bulb and a gorgeous gold star practically jumping off its top to streak across the entire room.
And that was just the decor of the house. The people inside it looked like they had walked off the pages of Vogue.
“May I take your coats?”
Matthew helpfully handed both our coats to the attendant just inside the entry. Security and an attendant. And, if I was correct, those were uniformed catering waiters carrying crystal flutes of champagne and pastel-colored canapes all over the enormous living room. The only house parties I’d ever attended involved a keg or two and red plastic cups. Maybe a big bowl of Cheetos if the host really splurged.
“I feel like I just entered the Weasleys’ tent at the Quidditch Cup,” I muttered to myself.
Beside me, Matthew snorted. “Frankie, maybe cool it on the Harry Potter references tonight.” When I looked hurt, he pointed across the room at a particularly beautiful painting. “Look. That’s an original Gustav Klimt.”
I swiveled, eyes bulging. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s the most comfortable museum you’ll ever visit,” he confirmed. “But I promise, the de Vrieses are good people.”
