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“We’re out of champagne,” he says, panic in his voice.
“How is that possible?”
The top of his bald head shines with sweat. He used to be a top sommelier at a five-star hotel, but a few hundred of Bishop’s Landing’s elite reduces him to a nervous breakdown. “Some young men. They wanted the bottles for beer pong. Champagne pong, they called it.”
“And you gave it to them?”
“Of course not.” He looks indignant. Then he sighs. “Mrs. Crockett asked after that vintage of Chardonnay she likes, and I went down to the wine cellar to get it. Then when I got back, two entire cases of champagne were gone.”
I press two fingers to the middle of my forehead. No champagne. If we aren’t careful, we’ll have a full-scale revolt on our hands. “We have white wine, right?”
“Plenty, madam.”
“The signature cocktail of the night is now a white wine spritzer, designed to celebrate both the simplicity and the depth of orchids. Have the bartenders offer it first. If we’re giving them something delicious and sparkling, they should be content.”
“And if someone requests champagne specifically?”
“There’s a couple bottles of Armand de Brignac in my father’s study.” Which I’ll have to replace before he notices it’s gone. He won’t appreciate having his private stash picked over. Then again, he wouldn’t like to have the guests denied.
That crisis averted, I continue working my way through the room.
My mother waves me over. “There’s someone I want you to meet,” she says, and she’s already smiling. Which means he must be nearby. And powerful.
“Who?” I know the entire guest list for this event, which means I know everyone in the room. Maybe not personally, but I know their names and their net worth. Those are the main things that matter in high-society circles.
An older man waits near the balcony door. He wears the black tuxedo well. He clearly works out. And if his hairline is receding, well, he can hardly help that. He looks to be in his forties, maybe ten years older than me. I recognize him as being in the manufacturing industry. “You must be Mr. Langley,” I say.
“I see my reputation precedes me,” he says, laughing. “Call me Alex.”
“How long are you staying in New York?” I ask, being polite. He’s got factories throughout the flyover states, but his home is in Chicago if I remember correctly.
“For a long time, perhaps. I’m thinking of moving to the East Coast.”
“Are you?” I say, my stomach sinking as I realize why my mother wanted to introduce us. It’s her attempt at matchmaking. The irony is that if I actually got married and started my own family, my mother would probably have a nervous breakdown. My father would get arrested for being drunk and disorderly. And my siblings would need something from me. Having money smooths a lot of life’s hard edges, but it doesn’t blunt them completely. We still need someone to handle the details. To get my mother her Xanax, to call the lawyer. To de-escalate every situation. We need a manager. And in the Morelli family, ever since I turned fifteen, that’s been me.
He gives me a vaguely paternal smile. “It’s time for me to start a family.”
Not exactly subtle, Alex. “I wish you luck, then.”
“Eva planned this little gala,” my mother says, breezing past my comment. “She creates the most memorable displays. People talk about them for months.”
“The perfect hostess,” he says, clearly approving.
Bile rises in my throat. Now I know what a racehorse feels like when it’s being checked over. Good teeth. A friendly disposition. Will look nice pulling your carriage.
“Speaking of hosting, I should check back in the kitchens.”
I make a break for it, but my mother catches up with me. She leads me into an empty hallway and a darkened drawing room.
“Sit with me,” she says. “I feel like we’ve been circling all night. I haven’t had a chance to really see you.”
“I’m right here.”
We have been circling all night. That’s what we always do, me managing one side of the room while she manages the other. We even do it at family dinners, her with my father, me handling my brothers. We spend untold energy keeping the peace in the Morelli household.
She hands me a glass filled with spritzer.
“It’s very good,” she says.
