Most of the people near the doors were deep in conversation with friends and acquaintances. As she passed them, she heard yacht chat and golf chat and reviews of Caribbean hot spots.
The rich are different than you and I, Bree thought, snagging a flute of champagne as a waiter passed with a tray.
She moved toward the perimeter of the terrace and a table that featured sushi, cooked shrimp on ice, and a slab of smoked Scottish salmon. Filling his plate high was a rail-thin man in his fifties with stretched-looking skin. He wore black pants, a black T-shirt, a black jacket, and red high-top sneakers.
He looked up at her. “I’m on a diet, but I can’t resist.”
“Neither can I,” Bree said and picked up a plate.
“My, my, that’s a dress to die for,” he said, eyeing her up and down. “It’s one of Frances’s pieces, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said. “I picked it up today at the store on Fifth.”
“Lucky you,” he said and held out his hand. “Phillip Henry Luster.”
Bree took it. “Nice to meet you, Phillip Henry Luster. I’m Evelyn Carlisle. Do you work for Frances?”
“I have, twice, briefly both times,” Luster said. “Two brazen egos always clashing. It was never functional.”
“But you remain friends?”
“Of a sort. Frances still invites me when it’s time to raise money for one of her causes. I like this cause, so I’m here.”
“Scholarships for minorities and LGBTQ students in fashion,” Bree said, putting shrimp on her plate. “I like the cause too.”
“So does my boss,” Luster said. “Tess Jackson.”
“Lucky you,” Bree said. “What do you do for Tess?”
“I draw and … well, here’s our hostess, the woman of the hour.”
CHAPTER 27
FOLLOWING LUSTER’S LINE OF sight, Bree saw Frances Duchaine coming through the French doors and greeting several people on the terrace as dear friends. Bree had to admit that the fashion designer was a presence—tall, Pilates-slim, and devastatingly chic, with short auburn hair that set off the turquoise of her flowing gown.
Other people on the terrace sensed Duchaine’s arrival and turned to see her.
“‘Walk into my parlor,’ said the spider to the fly,” Luster said and laughed a little bitterly to himself.
“What do you mean by that?” Bree asked and sipped from her champagne.
“Frances is too energetic and charismatic for her own good. Always has been. But when she wants money, she can sure turn on the femininity and the charm. What do you do, Evelyn?”
“Whatever I want, whenever I want,” Bree said.
“Cheers to that,” Luster said, raising his glass. “Live local?”
“Newport Beach, California, but I’m considering a move east. Long Island.”
“Are you in desperate need of Lyme disease or something?”
Bree laughed. “No. Just a change.”
“Recently divorced?”
“Recently widowed,” Bree said, sticking to her cover story.
“I’m sorry,” Luster said.
“So am I.”
He ate one of his shrimp before saying, “How was business at Frances’s Fifth Avenue store?”
“You know, that’s funny—”
“Oh God, here she comes already,” Luster muttered, setting down his plate on a table as the fashion designer approached.
“Phillip,” Duchaine said in a throaty, ironic voice. “Nice sneaks. Anything creative coming out of that pencil these days?”
“Every moment of every day, darling,” Luster said. “Have you met Evelyn?”
The famous designer looked to Bree with all the force of her nature, blue-green eyes wide, beckoning, her face so … interesting. Bree found herself dazzled when the designer held out her hand and said, “Hello, Evelyn. I’m Frances Duchaine.”
“Evelyn Carlisle,” Bree said, feeling flustered as she briefly took Duchaine’s hand. “From Newport Beach.”
“You have great taste in dresses, Evelyn. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Thank you, I love it,” Bree said, then blurted out something she didn’t know if she believed. “And it’s a real honor to meet you.”
Duchaine put her hand over her heart. “Bless you for that, and I hope you help us with your paddle this evening.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Bree said.
“Excellent. Where did you get the dress? In our Santa Monica store?”
“Fifth Avenue.”
“Oh, that worked well, then,” Duchaine said, smiling and putting her hand gently on Bree’s forearm. “Nice to meet you, Evelyn, and please spend freely.”
With that she was gone, swirling off into the crowd of well-wishers, and Bree felt like a spell had been broken.
“Is she always like that?” she asked Luster. “Overwhelming?”
“Always,” Luster said, seeming amused by her reaction. “It is why ordinary people can’t see the cracks in the empress’s armor. So, you were saying something about business at the store on Fifth? Something funny?”
Bree studied him a moment. “I don’t know. There just weren’t as many customers as I’d thought there would be in her flagship store.”
Luster smiled. “Because all the customers are over at Tess’s new flagship store on Lexington, putting on dresses of our design.”
All right, she thought. Mr. Luster is a constant surprise. Keep the man talking. She said, “The flower arrangements were a little wilted too.”
Luster sniffed. “Not surprising, given Frances’s ballooning debt.”
Someone rang a bell, calling the crowd to dinner.
“She’s in trouble financially?” Bree said.
Now Luster studied her. “That’s the rumor.”
“Do you have plans to sit with anyone for dinner, Phillip?” Bree asked.
He paused and then smiled. “You are more than you seem, I think, Evelyn Carlisle. I would love to break bread with you. And I just might know where some of the skeletons are alleged to hang in dear Frances’s closet.”
CHAPTER 28
Washington, DC
EARLY SATURDAY EVENING, NANA MAMA, Ali, John Sampson, Willow, and I were watching Jannie fidget as she stared at her laptop; on the big screen across the room, the weekend anchors of ESPN’s SportsCenter were engaged in witty banter about the unfolding baseball season.
Lucille Jones, one of the anchors, shifted in her chair, looked to another camera, and said, “But enough about baseball. Let’s talk a little track-and-field, shall we?”
Evan Kincaid, her partner, adjusted his glasses and said, “She’s so fast.”
“So fast,” Jones said, admiring.
“How fast is seventeen-year-old Jannie Cross of Washington, DC?” Kincaid said to the camera.
Jones said, “We thought we had a sense when we featured this film three years ago, when Jannie was fourteen and a freshman in high school.”
The screen cut to a much thinner and smaller version of my daughter in the blocks against much older girls. She rocketed out of them at the crack of the gun but stumbled and fell while her competition roared off into the first curve.