She turns. Her eyes are wide. "She left, Brooks. She just... left."
"Who?"
"Colette. The planner." Betty gestures vaguely to the chaos around her with a trembling hand. "I offered her a gentle critique regarding the placement of the raw bar, shellfish in direct sunlight is a lawsuit waiting to happen, and she threw her clipboard into the hydrangeas and drove off in her Fiat."
I look around the ballroom.
It is four hours until the gala begins. Three hundred of New York's wealthiest donors are currently dressing for the occasion. And the ballroom looks like a crime scene.
Crates of unboxed glassware are stacked precariously near the door. Tables are half-set. A ladder is standing in the middle of the dance floor with no one on it. A group of waiters is standing in the corner, looking leaderless and checking their phones.
"She took the schedule," my mother whispers, horrified. "She took the vendor list. Brooks, I don't know where the band is supposed to load in. I don't know where the ice sculpture goes."
"Okay," I say, stepping into the room. My brain shifts into crisis mode. "We can fix this. I'll call my assistant. We'll get the staff organized."
"Your assistant is in the city," Betty snaps, regaining some of her fire. "And these caterers don't report to you. They reported to Colette. It's a disaster. It's a humiliation. TheTimesstyle section is sending a photographer."
She sinks onto a gold Chiavari chair, looking suddenly small. "I'll have to cancel," she says. "I'll have to call the committee and claim a gas leak."
"You are not canceling," a voice says from the doorway.
I turn. Ivy is standing there.
She's wearing cutoff denim shorts and an oversized white button-down shirt that I recognize immediately because it belongs to me. She must have stolen it from the closet this morning. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot, held together by a pencil. She is holding a half-eaten apple in one hand and her phone in the other.
She looks completely out of place among the crystal chandeliers and limestone. And she looks absolutely magnificent.
"Ivy," I say. "Go back to the cottage. It's a war zone in here."
"I know," she says calmly, taking a bite of the apple. "I saw Colette peeling out of the driveway. She nearly took out a topiary. I assumed there was a vacuum in leadership."
She walks into the room, her eyes scanning the chaos. She doesn't look panicked. She looks... bored. Like she's seen worse.
"Mrs. Taylor," Ivy says, swallowing her apple. "Where is the master binder?"
"Colette took it," my mother says tragically.
"Rookie mistake," Ivy murmurs. She walks over to the stack of crates. She runs a hand over a table setting. She checks the position of the sun through the French doors. Then, she turns to us.
The shift is instantaneous. She straightens her spine. Her expression sharpens. The "fake fiancée" mask falls away, replaced by something far more intimidating: The General.
"Okay," Ivy says, her voice projecting clearly across the cavernous room. "Here's what's going to happen. Mrs.Taylor, go upstairs, take a Xanax, and get your hair done. You are theface of the event. You cannot be seen sweating near a crate of stemware."
My mother blinks. "But?—"
"Go," Ivy commands. It's not a request. "I need you radiant at 6:00 PM. I'll handle the floor."
Betty looks at me. I nod. "Go, Mother."
Betty stands up, smooths her skirt, and, miraculously, obeys. She flees the room as if escaping a burning building.
Ivy turns to the huddle of waiters. "You three," she points. "Front of house? Or catering?"
"Catering," one of them stammers.
"Great. The raw bar needs to move to the north wall, away from the windows. Ice it down now. If I see a lukewarm oyster, you're fired. Go."
They scramble.
