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BREE FELT ALMOST SEWNinto the gorgeous black dress with the brocade bodice. She put some arch in her spine so she could breathe a little better in the back seat of the town car she’d hired to take her to Frances Duchaine’s fundraising soiree.
At first, Bree thought it would be impossible to fit into the dress. But Marjorie and the tailor she brought in had been insistent, and with the help of an industrial-strength pair of Spanx tights, they finally coaxed and squished Bree into it.
Marjorie said she looked incredible. And with the stiletto heels, earrings, and necklace Marjorie picked out, Bree admitted she looked beyond stunning in the dress.
Beyond stunning or not,Bree thought, shifting again to get air,if I’m not careful, I could pass out or break a rib before this night’s over.
They pulled up to a gate behind two limousines. A guard checked Bree’s invitation against the guest list.
“Okay, Ms. Carlisle,” the guard said, handing it back to her. “Enjoy the evening.”
“Thank you,” she said brightly.
The town car wound up a serpentine drive through well-tended grounds to a two-story white brick mansion built in the 1920s. It had a beautifully lit fountain in the turnaround courtyard; a valet came to Bree’s door and opened it.
She blew out all the air in her lungs, smiled, squirmed out, and straightened, which made the dress looser and her next breath easier to take. Soft jazz came through the open front door to Duchaine’s home. It was a warm evening.
Bree followed several other couples spilling from the limos up the stairs and into a grand foyer with dual spiral staircases rising at the back to a landing where a quartet played. She showed her invitation to a woman, who checked Bree off under the name Evelyn Carlisle, gave her a bidding paddle for the live auction, and directed her to the rear terrace for drinks and hors d’oeuvres.
“That’s a beautiful dress, by the way,” the woman said.
“I can barely breathe in it, but thank you,” Bree said.
Moving with the equally well-dressed crowd, Bree went down a hall to the left of one staircase, passing a library and a dining room and seeing art nearly everywhere, which reminded her of an article on Duchaine inVanity Fair. The writer had noted that the fashion designer was no bleak modernist. Duchaine lived with as many textures and beautiful things around her as possible.
Bree entered a huge ballroom decorated for a party, with tables set with white linen, fine china, and crystal. The Frenchdoors on the far end were flung open, revealing a large blue-slate terrace decorated with bare white branches and webs of tiny lights that blinked every so often, like fireflies.
Perhaps a hundred of the seriously well-heeled were already on the terrace, sipping champagne and munching beluga caviar on toast. Bree joined them.
Most of the people near the doors were deep in conversation with friends and acquaintances. As she passed them, she heard yacht chat and golf chat and reviews of Caribbean hot spots.
The rich are different than you and I,Bree thought, snagging a flute of champagne as a waiter passed with a tray.
She moved toward the perimeter of the terrace and a table that featured sushi, cooked shrimp on ice, and a slab of smoked Scottish salmon. Filling his plate high was a rail-thin man in his fifties with stretched-looking skin. He wore black pants, a black T-shirt, a black jacket, and red high-top sneakers.
He looked up at her. “I’m on a diet, but I can’t resist.”
“Neither can I,” Bree said and picked up a plate.
“My, my, that’s a dress to die for,” he said, eyeing her up and down. “It’s one of Frances’s pieces, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said. “I picked it up today at the store on Fifth.”
“Lucky you,” he said and held out his hand. “Phillip Henry Luster.”
Bree took it. “Nice to meet you, Phillip Henry Luster. I’m Evelyn Carlisle. Do you work for Frances?”
“I have, twice, briefly both times,” Luster said. “Two brazen egos always clashing. It was never functional.”
“But you remain friends?”
“Of a sort. Frances still invites me when it’s time to raise money for one of her causes. I like this cause, so I’m here.”
“Scholarships for minorities and LGBTQ students in fashion,” Bree said, putting shrimp on her plate. “I like the cause too.”
“So does my boss,” Luster said. “Tess Jackson.”
“Lucky you,” Bree said. “What do you do for Tess?”
