“You too, Mrs. C. Your dress is crazy nice.”
I didn’t like being called “Mrs. C.,” like I was Mrs. Cunningham and he was the Fonz, not that Ty would even know what Happy Days was, but I did like that he noted my dress. “Thank you. It is crazy nice. Ruby made it.”
“Yeah? Well, when she told me she made her own clothing, I envisioned the apron I made my mother at summer camp. I didn’t realize she was talking art.”
I felt Ruby’s pleasure at him calling her creation art, and I took huge gratification in everyone studying us as we entered the building. Every woman turned, wineglass in hand, to give us the once-over, and all the men looked pretty dang appreciative, especially the gay ones, like my friend Chris, who drifted over to us and muttered, “My, my, my, I see some ladies who are causing quite a stir. Shall I toss in some vodka and rocks?”
I couldn’t think of one single person in my life more naturally charming than Chris, with his soft, draggy vowels and his slightly smart-ass but sincerely warm smile. Not to mention, as the most sought-after interior designer, his taste and judgment on what was “just so” was exactly what Ruby needed to take the next step with her venture.
“Chris,” I crowed, kissing his cheek and giving him a pat on the bottom—a total inside joke between us that he loved. It had to do with an older gay client and a night with too many tequila shots when Chris and I were staging a house for a movie. “I know you know Ruby, but do you really know Ruby?”
Chris cast his eyes on my sidekick. “Well, well, Ruby child, look at you all dressed up for the ball. And with a dish of candy to boot.” Chris ran his practiced eye over Ty, who didn’t seem to mind being thusly assessed. I got the feeling Ty liked to be admired by anyone.
Ruby gave Chris a thankful smile. “Thank you, Chris.”
“And who made your lovely gowns? Do tell.”
I grinned at Ruby. “It’s a custom-made line by an up-and-coming designer. We’ll have these for sale at Printemps later this spring.”
Chris gave an exaggerated mouth drop. “Are you telling me that you’re carrying custom couture now? Shut the front door.”
I shrugged one shoulder, not exactly certain how to answer that. Ruby and I hadn’t really talked about what came next for her. It was obvious to me that something should happen, whether I phoned my aunt and begged her to come down and meet Ruby—and visit Marguerite—or whether Ruby wanted to build her own business from the ground floor up. We needed to talk about it, even though I supposed it was her decision and I hadn’t a role other than as her biggest supporter. “You’ll know soon enough.”
“Oooh,” Chris drawled, eyeing Ruby. “You girls have a secret. I love secrets.”
I was about to make a casual comeback when my eye caught sight of my husband’s biggest secret—Stephanie the Tennis Pro entering the foyer with a few other similarly fit younger women. She had her hair in a high ponytail, wore a slinky dress covered in sequins, and carried a clutch that I happened to know cost $880 only because I had seen it in the Bergdorf Goodman email I had deleted from my computer a few days ago. How did a tennis pro afford a Christian Louboutin bag on her salary?
I glanced over to where my husband stood with his cronies, sipping scotch and telling middle-aged-white-guy stories. Scott glanced at Stephanie, and I saw him acknowledge her. She, in turn, smiled slyly at him.
“Uh,” I said, before realizing that Chris would totally catch it.
He arched a waxed eyebrow.
“Nothing. Just my Spanx riding up into places only my doctor should see.”
“Well, that tells me everything I need to know about Scott,” Chris said with a laugh. “Shall I fetch you ladies some chardonnay?”
If only he knew what Scott had been up to in recent months.
“Beat you to it,” Ty said, handing off a glass of something gold and fizzy. “But I went with champagne because these dames deserve the bubbly.”
“Too true,” Chris said, finding the perfect opportunity to flirt with a straight guy. Or I assumed Ty Walker was a straight guy. They turned to one another and discussed golfing, which was more boring than timing a centipede crossing the kitchen, which was something I had done weeks ago when I was mourning my marriage. Seemed twenty-six minutes and a few seconds in change was the winning number. And then Pippa had come in and promptly eaten the centipede, which seemed like a very unfair reward for the creature reaching its goal.
Ruby looked amused at Ty being tied up with Chris as she stepped back toward me so we were nearly shoulder to shoulder. Then I watched as she crowd-surfed with her gaze. Her eyes lingered on Stephanie for a moment, as if she knew who the woman was.