“Nothing at all.” It really didn’t. I was just trying to prevent an awkward silence. By making things awkward.
“I agree with Vivienne,” Allison said. “That’s precisely why I write fiction. I can say whatever I want and it has to be true.”
“Being unbiased is a monumental task.” We tended to land somewhere in the middle with our podcast. We presented the facts but we had opinions.
“It’s essential,” Vivienne said.
“We have arrived!” I said cheerfully as I entered the queue for valet parking.
My great-aunt Odette would think it was hilarious that I was driving a vanful of guests to the gala in my gown.
But I had to admit, I felt a teensy bit ridiculous when the parking attendant opened my door and blinked.
“Make sure nothing happens to this van,” I said breezily, leaping down onto the street in my heels. “I’ll make it worth your time.”
In my head, I could picture Hollis’s cackle if he heard me say that.
He would have made a great escort to an event like this.
I sighed, wishing I could at least have the opportunity to hold my champagne incorrectly. But since I was driving I threw my shoulders back and prepared for a long night of air kisses and society small talk with no champagne.
“Harper!” a shrill voice called out. “Harper Bergeron? Is that you?”
Three
I knew that voice and it was the stuff of nightmares.
Okay, so maybe that was a slight exaggeration. It wasn’t a banshee.
It was Hyacinth Maxwell, who sounded like a banshee but acted like another “b” word.
We’d gone to school together and she was also a legacy member of the Society. Her family had been in New Orleans since the 1840s, which was after my family, who were French and had allegedly been there since New Orleans was nothing but a swamp. In other words, my ancestors were clearly nuts.
I had grown up in Lakeview because my parents wanted to be part of the post-Katrina rebuild, but in the grand family tradition I had attended the Academy of the Sacred Heart all-girls school on St. Charles in the Garden District.
Hyacinth’s parents had been locked in a crucial battle with each other—Catholic or non-denominational prep school. Hyacinth’s mother had won the battle and we had entered Sacred Heart together right from jump—kindergarten. Thirteen years of forced proximity with Hyacinth Maxwell was twelve and a half years too many for my taste.
Turning, I pasted a smile on my face and prepared to endure a heavy round of what-are-you-doing-now questions. I hated these questions and they were precisely the reason I had every intention of skipping my ten year high school reunion this upcoming summer.
“Hyacinth, hi. You look great,” I said. My voice sounded weak even to my own ears.
She did look great, in a fitted buff colored dress, her hair artfully arranged to look effortless. Whatever. She was still a mean girl.
“Thanks.” She touched her bracelets. “David Yurman.”
“What?” I asked, blankly. “Is that your boyfriend?” I looked around for David Yurman.
Hyacinth laughed. “Harper, you were always so hilarious!”
It took me right back to being sixteen. Harper is so funny, omg!
In other words, mean girl code for you’re not cool. I didn’t really care then and I definitely don’t care now.
She leaned forward and air-kissed me. “Let’s catch up later, gotta mingle!”
“Sure. Great.” I tried not to gag or roll my eyes. I would be polite to Hyacinth but only because the Society was important to my great-aunt Odette and I didn’t want to “cause a scene.” If I ran into Hyacinth at the coffee shop though, all bets were off.
As Hyacinth strutted up the front walk like it was her personal runway, Vivienne looped arms with me. “David Yurman is a jewelry designer,” she murmured under her breath. “If you care.”
