“She’s Antoine Marchand’s daughter.”
Harriett’s curiosity was sufficiently piqued. “Is she really?”
“And Leonard Shaw’s girlfriend,” Chase added.
“Yeah?” Jo said. “So what?”
“Leonard’s the king of Culling Pointe.”
“A retired finance dude I’ve never heard of is the king of Culling Pointe?” Jo scoffed.
“He’s the one who started the whole community. He built the first house here back in the nineties.”
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?” Jo couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. “The cuddly little mensch with all the hair on his chest?”
“That mensch is one of the richest men in the world,” Chase said. “And now you two appear to be besties with his longtime girlfriend.”
“Maybe we’ll put in a good word for you the next time we see her,” Harriett told him. Then she laughed. “Oh, who am I kidding? No fucking way.”
“Claude invited you back?” Chase winced as if the idea caused him physical pain.
“Not exactly,” Harriett said. “But Culling Pointe may soon be in need of my services.”
Jo felt her smile fade as she remembered the handfuls of tiny seeds Harriett had tossed from Jackson Dunn’s roof deck.
“Your services?” Chase sneered. “I’ve heard you’re popular around Mattauk. Are you getting paid for your services these days?”
“You know, it’s a shame you’re so insecure, Chase,” Harriett replied. “Your penis really isn’t that small.”
Claude Marchand Plays Her Hand
Claude stood with a champagne flute in her hand, waiting for the toast to begin. To her right, the crowd parted, and she saw the young man making his way across the room toward her. He was lovely, she thought. His height, posture, and gait spoke of generations of good breeding.
He found an empty spot a few feet away from her. A moment or two passed before he casually turned her way. He didn’t want to try too hard. “Have you had a chance to view the collection?” he asked, smiling down at her. Even in heels she was almost a foot shorter than he was. Men always felt bigger standing next to her.
“Oh yes. It’s the reason I’m here. I’m Claude.” She saw no flicker of recognition in his eyes. He was genuinely interested. “I study art,” she added.
“Owen,” he said. “Where do you study?”
“Yale,” she replied. “I’m just down for the weekend. What did you think of the paintings? It’s in vogue these days to dismiss Singer Sargent as a brownnosing society portraitist.”
“I’ve always been a big fan of his,” Owen said. “In fact, that’s my great-great-grandmother right there.” He tilted his champagne glass at the portrait of a regal older woman whose corset-stiffened form was draped in pearls. “Of course, he was very prolific. I’m sure your grandmother is around here as well.”
Claude blushed prettily. “No, I don’t think so.” He thought she was one of them. He’d find out the truth soon enough. “So you’re descended from Lady Wilcott, then. I read somewhere that she was found in a storage facility that hadn’t been opened in decades. She must be glad to have finally found a good home.”
“Perhaps. It’s a shame, though.” Owen let his voice drop. “That she and the rest of these beautiful people will spend the next few decades staring back at that.”
Claude followed his eyes to the spot where their host stood chatting with a small group of guests. He was easily the largest man in the room, with a belly that cleared a broad path for the rest of him. The thatch of thick black hair on his head had been temporarily tamed, but his jowls were tinted by tomorrow’s beard. The party had started only an hour earlier, and there was already a stain on his shirt. Paté, Claude guessed. There was a matching splotch on his chin, where the food had first hit when it tumbled from his mouth.