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Chapter 20
Eric and I arrived at the gala with Janette and Maurice, whose driver had picked us up so we could all travel together. Eric was decked out in a tuxedo that he actually owned. I shouldn't have been surprised. I often forgot about it, but his family was part of the same Upper East Side set that Janette came from.
"I just love Beth, your mother," Janette said once we were on our way. "She's a bit older than me, of course, but what a darling."
"I'll tell her you said hello," Eric replied with the subtle, practiced politeness of someone who had been having these kinds of conversations his entire life.
I listened curiously; it was possible I could learn something from Eric. Maurice, who hadn't stopped speaking on his cell phone once, ignored the rest of us as he prattled on in French. He had a typical Parisian accent and spoke very quickly; even with my mostly fluent French, I found him difficult to understand.
"Now, let's get a look at my gorgeous girl," Janette said, turning to me. "Well, I can't see a thing with that shawl on. Wherever did you get it, the Good Will?"
She tugged off the light, gold-threaded scarf I used to cover my shoulders. I sniffed. It was a hand-me-down from Bubbe, who had bought plenty of my clothes growing up from secondhand stores. The scarf fell around my hips, and Janette nodded in approval as she looked me over.
The Grecian-style, moss-green gown did fit perfectly. The satin fabric draped over one shoulder and left the other bare, while the gold-corded bodice cinched my waist smaller than it already was. A hidden slit in the skirt would tease my leg every now and then, but the dress's sex appeal came mostly from the way it made me look like I'd been wrapped in luxurious green sheets, leaving most of my body to the imagination.
Janette had insisted on a beaded gold clutch and strappy gold sandals to go with the dress, and we had spent several more hours that afternoon having our hair and makeup done. Janette had instructed the hairdresser to create barrel rolls out of my masses of red, which had then been pinned at the crown of my head and set with two thin, gold headbands, much like a Greek statue. The makeup artist had drawn subtle gold tints around my eyes, complemented by otherwise natural makeup. I felt a bit like a dress-up doll, but I couldn't deny the effects.
"Yes, I'm glad we went with that one," Janette said. "But something is missing, isn't it?" She reached down and fingered the pounded silver cuff on my wrist. "This is nice, but it doesn't really go with the dress, does it? The accents aren't silver."
Self-consciously, I looked at the sturdy silver piece Brandon had given me. The bracelet felt like an anchor against a pending storm.
"Luckily, I came prepared," Janette said as she reached into her small purse and pulled out a pair of thin gold cuffs and a set of diamond-drop earrings. "Put these on. They'll show off your darling little wrists. I'll keep your bracelet in my purse."
"That's all right," I murmured, reluctantly sliding it off my wrist and putting it in my own clutch.
Eric snorted. Janette had worn me down throughout the day. She watched with pride as I put on her jewelry.
"There," she said once I was finished. "Now you're perfect."
Beside me, Eric gave my hand a compatriotic squeeze. Obviously, he understood this weirdly superficial praise that seemed nested in tacit critique; if his mother was anything like Janette, he had dealt with it his entire life.
"Thanks," I said. Maybe I looked perfect, but as we pulled up to an event full of people whom I essentially had to hide from, I felt anything but.
The limo drove past a gatehouse onto an expansive, tree-lined estate, and I gawked openly.
"You'd better shut your mouth before we get there, dear," Janette said knowingly.
Eric chuckled. Maurice shot me a sideways glance and continued chattering in French.
We joined a line of cars dropping off pairs of glamorous attendees at the entrance. My palms started to sweat. The house––if you could even call it that––was bigger than my entire apartment building, and built in a style that would look more at home on an English manor than the middle of Brookline.
"Who lives here?" I asked incredulously.
"Oh, Rick Avery owns it now. He founded Nike, I think. Or was it Reebok? I really don't know, some enormous shoe company. Isn't that right, Maury?" Janette asked.
Maurice nodded, but didn't stop his chatter to answer. Our limo stopped in front of the mansion's grand entrance, and one of the several servants standing outside in tuxedos stepped forward to open the door.
"Onward and upward, darling," Janette said as she scooted out.
Eric and I followed, and Maurice shuffled after us, finally putting his phone away.
"You got this, Cros," Eric whispered, tucking my wrist into the crook of his elbow.
"Did you do this a lot growing up?" I asked quietly as we walked toward the entrance.
"Every freaking weekend," he muttered. "Stick by me. I'll keep you safe from the wolves."
We followed other well-dressed attendees into the house. It was the kind of place that looked more like a castle than a home. Massive double doors opened into a domed hall that could have fit Bubbe's entire house inside. A huge winding staircase curved around the space, and past that was a reception room for large events like these.
