“I’d include Maureen Cordeiro and Laura Ladd. Oh, and Kimberly Covington Smith. They’re younger and have loads of connections. They’ll be good allies.”
“Thank you,” Rory said, pleasantly surprised. “And what about you? Do you want to be invited?”
“Well, of course I do. Why would you even ask?”
“I was giving you an out. I know you’re not crazy about the idea. I didn’t want to put you in a position of either having to grit your teeth and go or find a polite way to say no.”
“What a thing to say. I’m your mother, Aurora. Of course I want to be part of your big night. Speaking of which, have you given any thought to who might cater? I could make a few calls, maybe work out a finger food menu. It’s one less thing for you to worry about. Also, there’s entertainment to consider. The right entertainment can make an event—or break it. There was the time Laurie Lorenz made the mistake of hiring a pianist, sight unseen. The man crooned Barry Manilow tunes all night. I offered to contact a wonderful harpist, but she insisted on doing everything herself. It was a disaster.”
Rory bit her lip. Under no circumstances would there be a harpist at her opening. There was no denying that Camilla Grant knew her way around an event, but the only fingerprints on this event were going to be hers. “Thanks, but I’ve been working on some ideas, and I’d really like to do this on my own.”
Camilla sighed breezily. “Suit yourself, but I’m here if you change your mind. How about letting me give you a makeover instead?”
Oh, good grief. “I do not need a makeover, Mother.”
“Sweetheart . . . How do I say this without sounding mean? With so much on your plate, you’ve let yourself get a little . . . shabby.”
“You make me sound like a bag lady.”
“All right, I’m sorry. But you have to admit that you’ve been focused on other things these last few months. You could do with a little . . . sprucing up. If you won’t let me help with anything else, let that be my contribution. We’ll get you a new outfit, something smashing, and maybe do something with your hair.”
“I don’t need something smashing. It isn’t going to be that kind of night—or that kind of gallery.”
“Fine. We’ll find you something less than smashing. We can do it next Saturday. I’ll make an appointment with Lorna for your hair, and a manicure, too, I think. We can grab lunch at Seasons afterward.”
“We’ll see. I have to go. I’ve got the shower running.”
“So . . . Saturday?”
“I’ll call you later in the week.”
Rory was still smarting over her mother’s use of the word shabby when she returned to the bathroom. Was she . . . shabby? She wiped the fog from the mirror and peered at her face. Her cheeks and forehead were smudged with paint, and flecks of gray speckled the wheat-colored waves that had escaped her ponytail. She pulled the elastic free, shaking out the unruly mass. It fell well past her shoulders now, her bangs so long they nearly obscured her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a haircut, and her highlights had grown out a good three inches, creating a subtle but discernible line of demarcation.
Perhaps her mother had a point. She had let herself go. She’d never been a girlie girl, with drawers full of makeup and a twice-a-day skin-care regimen, but she’d never completely stopped caring about her appearance. Maybe it was time for a change. Nothing elaborate, just enough to signal the start of her new role as gallery owner.
She turned off the shower, padded back to the bedroom, and opened her closet. Her wardrobe was another area she tended to neglect, partly because the thought of shopping for clothes made her break out in hives. Nothing ever seemed to fit her properly, as if every piece of clothing in the world had been made for someone else. She wasn’t petite like her mother. She was tall and long-limbed with broad shoulders and narrow hips. A swimmer’s body.
She peered toward the back, where her good clothes hung. Gifts from her mother, mostly, intended to feminize her boyish daughter. Eggshell, beige, taupe, and ivory, with the occasional pastel thrown in, many still bearing their original tags. And if she agreed to go shopping with her mother next week, she’d have one more beige elephant to add to her collection.
On impulse, she located Soline’s number and dialed.
“Hello?”
“Is this the fairy godmother hotline?”
“Rory? Is something wrong?”