I happen to know from her personnel file, which I read on the drive, that he was a truck driver. Technically true.
"And my mother is a retired educator originally from Jersey."
"Jersey," my mother repeats. She sips. "How... spirited."
I tense.
"So," Betty continues, setting down her glass. "Brooks tells me this was a whirlwind romance. He's usually so... calculated. I must admit, I was surprised to hear he'd proposed to someone we've never met."
"Brooks has always kept his personal life private," my father says mildly, as if this is an old, accepted flaw. "We're accustomed to learning things after the fact."
My mother's mouth tightens, but she doesn't contradict him.
That part, at least, is honest. I've never brought a woman home. I've never talked about anyone long enough for it to matter.
"Especially someone so... new to the circle," Betty adds, eyes back on Ivy.
"When you know, you know," I say, reaching for Ivy's hand. A reflex. Or maybe an instinct to put something between my mother and her scrutiny.
"Indeed," Betty says. Her gaze sharpens. "And tell me, Ivy, what is it about my son that charmed you? Was it his portfolio? Or perhaps the Hamptons estate?"
The table goes silent. It's an insult wrapped in a question. She's calling her a gold digger to her face.
I open my mouth to shut it down, but Ivy squeezes my hand. Hard.
She leans forward slightly, meeting my mother's gaze head-on. She doesn't look offended. She looks... amused.
"Actually, Mrs.Taylor," Ivy says, her voice light and conversational, "it was his ability to handle a crisis. We met when a mutual friend's wedding was about to go off the rails. Brooks stepped in to... handle a difficult situation."
I admire the audacity. She's using the tackle as our meet-cute.
"I admire a man who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty to protect the people he cares about," Ivy continues. "It's a rare quality in this city. Most men just throw money at problems. Brooks throws himself at them."
My father chuckles. He actually chuckles. "She's got a point there. Remember when Brooks fixed the wiring on the yacht when the captain quit?"
My mother's lips purse. She hasn't drawn blood, and she doesn't like it. She pivots.
"Well," she says. "I suppose 'crisis management' is a useful skill. Though I hope you won't be managing our events. I prefer to leave that to the professionals."
She sighs, looking out at the ocean. "Speaking of which, this season is already a disaster. I'm hosting the Mid-Summer Charity Gala in two weeks, and the event planner I hired, some woman named Colette, is incompetent. She wants to do tented ceilings in the ballroom. Can you imagine? In July? It will look like a circus tent."
This is a trap. I know it's a trap. If Ivy agrees, she's snobby. If she disagrees, she's contradicting the hostess.
Ivy tilts her head, studying my mother. She switches modes. I watch it happen, the shift from Fiancée to The Fixer.
"Tented ceilings are risky," Ivy agrees thoughtfully. "Especially with the humidity this year. It traps the heat. You'll have guests sweating through their silk within an hour."
My mother blinks. "Exactly."
"If I were advising on the Eastmoor ballroom," Ivy continues, "I'd actually suggest an open-air projection mapping on the ceiling. Keep the airflow but use light to create the texture. Maybe a soft amber wash to complement the limestone? It makes the diamonds sparkle better in photographs."
My mother stops moving. Her glass hovers halfway to her mouth.
She looks at Ivy. Then she looks at the ceiling of the club terrace, as if imagining the lighting.
"Amber wash," Betty muses. "Not blue?"
"Blue washes out skin tones," Ivy says with the confidence of a general. "Everyone looks sickly in blue light. Amber is universally flattering. Your guests will look ten years younger. And they'll drink more champagne because they feel attractive."
