Bubbling laughter and the soft strains of jazz piano drift down the beach from the remaining guests at my engagement party, a reminder of the part I’m playing today. Enter: the grateful prodigal granddaughter who eventually made something of herself with all her silly music.
Plastering on a smile, I climb the stairs from the beach to my grandparents’ Hampton’s house. Housesmight be more accurate, a main house and guest house are set on a lush patch of land, vibrant green grass and pops of pastel hydrangea bushes cut a distinct unnatural line against the sand.
At the top of the steps, I consider the path to the left where my car is waiting. I don’t have time for this party, Jamie’s premiere is tonight, and I’ll have to rush to get ready. But I made it work because Ivy Sloane doesn’t work around your schedule. You figure out how to work around hers.
If you don’t make it work? Well, don’t expect another invitation.
I may be tired and overwhelmed, but I’m not sure I’m ready to throw away nearly a decade of reconciling with my grandparents over attempting to squeeze in an hour-long nap.
Accepting my only real choice, I flop my heels onto the path, shove my feet in, and head to the garden. Guests mingle in the curated oasis; flutes of mimosas delicately pinched between their fingers. Amongst them, Ivy Sloane holds court.
With a wave of a hand, her hanger-ons scatter, less like a flock of birds and more like butterflies delicately fluttering to a new flower. I, on the other hand, am aerating the lawn with the thin heels she insisted I changed into after she had one look at my practical sandals.
“Where were you? You’re covered in sand,” Ivy says in way of greeting. She’s nearly as tall as I am, only having to tilt her head up slightly to see me past the wide brim of her hat.
“This place is on the beach, isn’t it? The party is nearly over anyway.” And after two hours here, I had to either take a break and make a phone call or risk snapping at the daughters of New England’s one percent for asking if I’ll have time to laser off my tattoos before the wedding, but I doubt Ivy would be pleased with that. So, phone call it was.
“These people are here to see you. The least you could do is stick around to say goodbye.”
These people are here to gawk at me like I’m the newest animal at the zoo,I think. But say instead,“Of course, they came all this way for such a lovely party.”
“Yes, it’s far better than Isabelle’s niece’s engagement.” She nods, gaze traveling over the garden to appraise the work of her underpaid party planner that she takes credit for. “Chartreuse floral arrangements. You can’t buy taste.” She shivers at the thought. Her eyes land on the neckline of my cream silk halter-neck dress, revealing the garden of floral tattoos covering my arms. If she had her way, I’d be in a floor length turtleneck.
But it’s August in the Hamptons, and I would like to make it out of this party without keeling over from heat stroke, thank you very much.
Ivy’s nimble fingers adjust my dress, setting the drapes back in place and brushing off stray flecks of sand that have collected on the fabric. She steps back to check, assesses, then fusses my hair so it’s flowing down my back and not over my shoulders. “Didn’t my assistant send you the contact information for my hairdresser in Manhattan? This red, whoever is doing it, should have their cosmetologist license revoked.”
“I must have lost the information,” I say, trying to ignore the sting of her disapproval. Appearances are everything in her world. She’s picky because she cares, it would be more cruel to not say anything and let me look like an idiot.
“I’ll have it sent to you again.”
And I’ll “lose” it again. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it to keep my hair the way it is. I could pull off blonde or brunette. After all, Ivy isn’t the only one who’s been critiquing my appearance lately. Just last week, I caught sight of a headline questioning why I haven’t upgraded to something more age appropriate.
Still, my hair and tattoos are some of the few things I can’t seem to let go. I feel like as long as I control my appearance in these small ways, I’m still me even if everything else about my life changes.
For the next hour, I stand with Ivy as guests come to give their congratulations. I give polite thank yous and clamp my mouth shut as Ivy doles out commentary on my life choices.
“It’s such a relief to know she’s ending up with someone so professional. We were so worried when she was a teenager, always hanging around those rougher artist types who drink away their millions,” Ivy says, glowing with pride.
“Small miracles,” one of the women agrees.
Another asks, “What about the venue? Ivy, I know you must have somewhere remarkable in mind.”
“I’ve been looking at Wyndham House. Isabelle’s niece couldn’t get it last year and I can’t wait to see her face when she realizes we did. That reminds me, dear”—Ivy places a hand on my arm—“I’ll need the information for your wedding planner.”
“Wedding planner?” I blink, taken aback.
“Please don’t tell me you’re hoping to do this yourself. I know you have your brand…but I assumed you had a plan.” She shares a look with the women around us.
“We’ll have one soon, but it’s only been a week.”
“Which means you’re already behind. Have you thought about your bridesmaids? I know there’s that Evelyn girl, she’s cute, but she really should learn how to keep her thoughts to herself,” Ivy says.
“I’ll ask her, and my assistant Harper to be one too.”
“Smart, that way she can help without looking like an eyesore.” Not what I meant, but I don’t exactly have a long list of friends so I’ll settle for what I can get. “What about the people from that movie? They’ll look good in pictures.”
“I’ll ask Jamie who he’d like in the wedding party.”
