Page 71 of Old Money
“Thank you.” Susannah smiles at the server. “Water’s fine.”
He plunks down a sweating jug of ice water, leaving Susannah to fill her cup. She holds the pitcher gently to her temple before pouring. Another thing Susannah can’t tolerate is heat—and it’s considerable in here, between throngs of people and the pizza ovens running full blast.
“Why are you wearing a cardigan?” I ask. “It’s like eighty degrees outside.”
It comes out rude, but not as rude as my real question:Why are you dressed like a Stepford Wife?
“We’re having dinner with his parents. All this wedding chaos. I’m going from here.”
My back straightens and my eyes go to the door.
“He’s not here,” she adds. “Do you really think... ? Never mind. I shouldn’t have come. I wanted to congratulate Theo in person, but whatever. Another time.”
She gulps down the water, ice and all. I look over to a dense cluster in the crowd where Theo stands surrounded, merrily chatting.
“Yeah, I guess you might not get a chance to at the wedding,” I say, and take a pointed sip from my own cup.
“It wasn’t me,” she sighs. “It was my in-laws, okay? He was ontheirlist, not mine. It was a gesture—a professional courtesy.”
“A heads-up would’ve been nice.”
“If I’d known, I’d have given you one!”
“Right.” I nod, still looking across the room. “You’re saying his parents have their own invite listsolong that you didn’t even notice my brother was on it.”
“Alice, their list has three former presidents on it.” She reaches for the pitcher of water, refilling her cup. “There are something like four hundred people invited to this wedding—about twenty of whom I actually know.”
Surprise ripples over my surly expression, and I turn to look at her.
“Yeah,” Susannah says, an acerbic tinge to her voice. “And half had already RSVPed.”
She downs the water, clearly wishing it was white wine.
“Sorry?” I ask, catching her odd phrasing. “TheyhadRSVPed?”
Susannah glances at me and does a quick double-take, her face mirroring my confusion.
“Before the dates changed,” she says slowly. “Didn’t Jamie—I called this afternoon. He didn’t tell you?”
“Wait.” I stop her. “Wait. Theweddingdate?”
“Yes, we had to move it up. Jamie didn’t tell you? I said it was fine if he did.”
“I was off today.” I brush this aside. Jamie’s not the issue. “Moved up to when? And why?”
My heart thrums, my mouth already going dry.
“I’m not supposed to say anything yet, but—” She exhales. “Vanity Fairwants to cover the wedding. And with their schedule—the photos, the interviews—we had to move everything up by a week.”
She rolls her eyes to the ceiling.
I’m so relieved that I laugh aloud. Not a pregnancy. Just a magazine story.
“So, the wedding’s July twenty-seventh now,” Susannah says, eyeing me, thrown by my sudden laughter. “It’s chaos, like I said. We only just sent the invitations, and now— God,whatis so funny?”
I’ve started laughing harder, imagining the mayhem—this wrench thrown into the summer plans of every socialite north of the Mason-Dixon,andthree former presidents.
“Nothing,” I wheeze, my eyes watering. “You’re going to put East Hampton into a recession.”
